Exsanguination
by Shi-Toyu
Summary: When Sherlock gets a new case, things aren't adding up. There are mysteries piling up even faster than the bodies, but those aren't exactly coming slow. Now John has a secret that could break the case...or break their friendship forever. Case fic. Supernatural! Building Johnlock! (Try it, I swear you'll love it...maybe)
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So here we are in the first chapter of my newest story! For everyone who is joining me because of Scream, welcome back! For those who are new to my stories, welcome! I hope you all enjoy this journey with me!

Chapter 1

When Sherlock first got the call from Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, he'd been as excited as ever. He, along with almost every other person in London had heard about the recent murders. The first had been two weeks ago, a young man, maybe early twenties. He'd been military, home on leave. The second had shown up exactly a week later. A female this time, the victim was in her late thirties.

Clearly, the killer didn't have an age or gender preference. Though Sherlock didn't yet have enough evidence to say for certain, he would have put money on the fact that the killer was what criminal psychologists would call an omnivore. This term simply meant that the killer would kill indiscriminately. So far, the only thing connecting the two victims was the fact that they were both British and Caucasian. That and, of course, _how_ they died.

Both victims had been drained of blood, completely.

Sherlock had been restless for _days_, waiting for the call from Lestrade. He knew it was coming, it was just a matter of time. When it finally did come, in the form of a reluctant phone call, Sherlock nearly whooped with joy and raced out of the flat. It had been exactly a week since the last killing, two weeks since the first. If he was very good, he might be able to save another life.

Lestrade met him on the cement outside of the morgue as he stepped out of his taxi. Sweeping past the man and into St. Bart's, Sherlock took note of how haggard the other man looked. Clearly, this case wasn't going well for him. Couple that with the DI's current divorce and Sherlock was surprised it took him this long to call.

"Where's John?"

Sherlock barely looked up from his phone to answer.

"Clinic. He's being positively boring about not leaving early, as if catching a killer weren't more important than a few colds."

He wrinkled his nose in disgust because, really, did John even think about what he was doing? He was clearly overqualified for the position, an army doctor should not come home just to treat the sniffles, and it wasn't like he even needed the work anymore. Thanks to John's blog, though Sherlock would never admit it aloud, they were getting plenty of traffic for cases. The fact that many of them paid quite well meant that neither of them had to work outside jobs.

Still, John insisted on keeping up with his silly locum work at the surgery, claiming something or other about how he owed Sarah for everything she'd put up with. Ridiculous. Sherlock swept the thought from his mind as he burst into the morgue, causing Molly to jump and nearly spill coffee all over herself.

"Where are they?"

Recovering quickly and getting right to work, one of Molly's best attributes in Sherlock's opinion, the young woman pulled the two bodies out of their respective drawers and positioned them on the tables for Sherlock to examine. He began with the male victim, supposedly the first to die.

According to his file, his name was Darren Clark and he'd been born and raised in London before heading off into the military at 18. He was home from his five year contract for only a few months before he shipped out again. No real family to speak of. Brunette hair, bleached somewhat from exposure to the sun, was cut short, but still played off his tanned skin rather well. Sherlock noted in an offhand way that he would probably be considered rather handsome. You know, if it weren't for the whole 'being dead' part.

Glancing at the other body, Sherlock took note of her rather attractive features as well. Possible correlation?

Liz Tolbert, the woman lying on the other table looked a bit worse for wear, despite her looks. Unlike Darren's clean-shaven appearance, the woman had dirt under nails that were bitten to stubs. Bags under her eyes looked almost bruise-like. He rotated her arm to look at the inside of the elbow and quickly found the expected track marks, an addict then. Shoulder-length hair was un-kept, a molt of blonde and dark brown. It had been dyed so many times that not even Sherlock could quite identify what its original color had been. Clearly she'd been on the outs for several years, if not longer, likely since she was a teenager.

Each victim had a dark bruise on the back of their left hand. Even just a cursory inspection revealed a needle mark in the center of the bruise. This was obviously the location from which the killer took the blood. Odd. For all intents and purposes there were a number of easier places from which to extract the blood. Taking it from the back of the hand and still managing to get all of the blood out would take time and machinery.

A further inspection of each body showed that there were no ligature marks, meaning no ropes or ties were used to restrain them. There were also no other injuries present on either victims, so they were subdued quickly and without overt force. They hadn't been knocked out by a blow to the head. Sherlock supposed soft leather restraints could have been used, there were types designed for the bondage community that were meant not to leave a mark, but he considered drugs more likely.

"Toxicology?"

Molly jumped at his sudden question, but leaned forward eagerly with her answer. It was these contradictions in her personality that drew Sherlock to her. Not romantically, of course. That still wasn't his area.

"Totally clean. Nothing popped."

Sherlock could feel the frown etching itself onto his features. No drugs? That brought him back to the leather restraints. So how did he get them on the victims? Surely, these two had not voluntarily allowed the restraints to be used on them. Factoring in how long it would take to arrange the binds, it was unlikely to be a surprise attack.

Furthermore, what had they been attached to? Judging by the looseness of the joints and skin, the restraints hadn't been attached to each other. They would have had to have been tied to something else.

"I need the crime scene photos. Likely they're useless, but maybe one of your bumbling team inadvertently caught something."

Lestrade produced the file with minimal grumbling. It seemed he'd finally gotten over that pesky phase of trying to defend his team's incompetence. That had been irritating.

Examining the pictures, Sherlock paid close attention to the ground around the victims. Each had been found in an alley, not all that unusual for murders. However, these alleyways were just off of busy areas. Both were even well-traveled. It took only a quick glance at the pictures for Sherlock to determine that the ground hadn't been disturbed around the victims by a struggle. Killed elsewhere, then.

That would corroborate with the method by which the blood was extracted. Draining a body of blood through the back of the hand was time consuming, but also very difficult without proper equipment. The killer likely used some sort of suctioning device at a fixed location before dumping the bodies. Sherlock bent over the man's hand to examine the bruise more closely.

As he'd observed before, the bruise centered around a small injection point. What was odd about the situation, though, was that there was bruising at all. Because the bodies had been drained of their blood, a bruise should not have been able to form. Sherlock initially chalked the anomaly up to the sheer amount of time it would take for the blood to be drained but he wanted to take a closer look to see if he could nail down any more details.

It was during this analysis that he spotted a difference in color between two parts of the bruise. True, bruises were in and of themselves discolorations, but this was different. Through his pocket magnifier, Sherlock was able to trace the hint of an outline that was some sort of design on Darren's hand. The bruise made it difficult to make out the complete design, but there was definitely something there. He wasted little time in checking Liz's for the same.

Sure enough, the bruise lay over a design. Several of the lines coincided perfectly with those of Darren's hand. Finally, a connection. Sherlock had been starting to think these victims had been picked at random. Once again, he turned towards Lestrade.

"What did your team find out about the stamps on their hands?"

"Stamps? You mean the bruises?"

"Ah. I see. You didn't notice them. Why am I not surprised?" He pointed at the back of each victim's hand. "There's a pattern under the bruise that appears to be some sort of stamped design. There is enough visible of each pattern that I should be able to reconstruct the original. Molly, do you have a pen and paper handy?"

"Of course!"

Molly handed over the requested items and Sherlock got to work mapping out the lines he could find under the bruises. He could practically feel the Detective Inspector leaning over his shoulder, trying to take a look at the bruising. A voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like John told him not to snap at the man.

A few minutes passed in relative silence as Sherlock worked. It wasn't long before a clear picture began to form. Though incomplete, it didn't take a genius to fill in the missing areas. (Okay, maybe it did, but Sherlock _was_ a genius, so it wasn't like it caused any problems.) He held out the sketch to Lestrade.

"A sun and a moon?"

"They're combined into one picture. The crescent moon covers a portion of the sun. Generally, this would indicate that the night is exerting power over the day, but the sun's rays surround the entire piece, clearly displaying that it still holds great power."

"So you think the killer is marking his victims with these stamps before he kills them?"

"Oh, don't be so dull, Inspector. What I believe is that these stamps came from a specific place, likely where the killer found his victims. Don't you understand? There's finally a connection!"

In his excitement, Sherlock's gaze swept the room, eyes searching for someone who wasn't there. It seemed more and more often now that he came to expect John's presence. Though their separation was unusual, the younger Holmes still felt a flash of irritation every time he turned to say something to the man only to find he wasn't there. Who was he to have wormed his way so concretely into Sherlock's life?

It would likely come as no surprise to anyone, but Sherlock was not the type to get connected to people. Sentiment was a weakness and a luxury that he had no desire to indulge in. He'd known many people throughout his life, but John was the first he truly cared about. True, he had a fondness for Mrs. Hudson and even Lestrade, but neither of them could compare to how he felt for John.

They weren't romantic feelings, per se; Sherlock didn't go through life wanting to jump his flat mate's bones. However, this was the first time Sherlock had ever had someone he could actually consider to be a friend before. He'd faked friendships for cases in the past but that was hardly the same. John affected him in ways he'd never encountered before. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to tell the difference between romantic and nonromantic emotions. He had no personal experience with either.

Furthermore, it hardly mattered which they were when John's chosen sexuality was painfully obvious. It didn't take someone with Sherlock's deductive skill to notice that he adamantly denied their being in a relationship, or that fact that he loudly proclaimed not to be gay. Even if Sherlock's feeling ran towards the romantic gambit, he would have no inclination to put his first real friendship to the test by confessing those feelings to a clearly straight man. If anything, the brunette was selfish and he would happily do whatever it took to ensure that John never left him.

As if to distract the consultant from his current line of thought, Lestrade's ringtone filled the air of the morgue. The DI answered curtly while Sherlock's gaze zeroed in on his face. The tightness along his brow and around his mouth said that it was about the case. The way his mouth tugged down said it wasn't good news. The jaw clench meant there was another body.

Right on time.

Sherlock stood and turned to the door with a swirl of his coat, tucking the sketch into his pocket. He paused before leaving and looked back over his shoulder to peer at Lestrade.

"Text me the address for the crime scene. I've got a stop to make and then I'll meet you there."

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock swept out of the door and to the street. A quick cab ride later found his passing off the sketch to a member of his homeless network and a text from Lestrade with the address. Less than half an hour after he'd left the morgue, Sherlock was entering the new crime scene. As per usual, it was Donovan who met him at the tape.

"Where's your dog, freak? Did you finally scare him away?"

"Charming as always, Donovan. It is truly amazing that you would have been passed up for promotion last week. I can't imagine how someone with your extensive skills with human relations would not have secured a position as a media liaison."

He was reasonably sure that if Sally were a dog she would have growled as he passed. Good thing he was so used to ignoring her very presence. He spotted Lestrade a short way down the alley with two uniformed yarders. As he approached, Sherlock overheard the man giving directions to canvas the area for witnesses.

"It won't do you any good. I can guarantee you won't find anything."

"Glad to see you made it. And I've still got to at least try getting witnesses. You never know, maybe someone noticed something."

"Not with this one. He's too organized. That much is clear through his blatant use of busy areas. No one saw a thing."

Lestrade swipes a hand through his hair, stress showing clearly on his face.

"Well I've got to do something, don't I? I can't just stand around waiting for you to perform a miracle while the bodies are piling up!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they swept over the Detective Inspector's form.

"There were two this time…"

"Yeah, how did you-"

"Show me."

Lestrade gestured down the alley, too stressed over the growing number of bodies to be annoyed with Sherlock's behavior. He was somewhat like John in that regard, always worrying about the person behind the bodies. It motivated him to do his job, but Sherlock still felt that sentiment was a failing.

Pushing aside these thoughts and focusing on the crime scene, Sherlock took a moment to view the two latest victims. One man and one woman; they appeared to be a couple, as the woman's head rested on his chest and her body curled towards him. His arm was wrapped around her waist. The killer could have arranged them after death, but that not only didn't seem his style but their positioning seemed too natural. It looked as though they had moved to each other in their last moments.

The thought made Sherlock frown. How could they have moved towards each other if they were so drained of blood, not to mention restrained? Also, the fact that they had moved into that position while dying and were still in it indicated that they had been killed in this alley. That didn't add up with the time and machinery it would take to drain the victims. It was possible that he had the machinery set up in a vehicle, but the alleyway wasn't wide enough to allow for such things.

Oh, this was delicious.

The man was tall, easily over six feet, and thin as a rail. Despite that, his frame was powerful and Sherlock would put money on him being able to hold his own in a fight. His skin was tanned in a way that said he was born with it and, coupled with his short black hair, Sherlock was sure he was a Latino of some sort, likely Mexican if the pads of his hands were anything to go by. A plain gold band that was obviously some years old decorated his left ring finger, so married. A matching ring on the woman's finger told the detective to whom.

The amount of wear to the outside of each ring indicated they'd been for at least fifteen years. So they'd married young. Neither individual looked more than in their late twenties. They'd been happily married, too, since the rings looked well cared for, despite their age. In fact, the design of the rings looked to be from the late 1800's. Family heirlooms, then? Likely from the man's side of the family.

The woman's skin was much darker. She had the exotic look of the woman in ancient African tribes, all high cheekbones and lanky figure. Her skin was ebony and looked as smooth as silk, hair cropped short to her scalp. Her nails were manicured to perfection and showed no signs of breakage, despite her hands looking as though she did regular work. Her thighs and calves were defined in ways that told Sherlock she did a lot of running, likely by choice. Professional athlete, perhaps?

He half-turned towards Lestrade.

"Do you have an ID yet?"

"ID's on the victim's say they are Miranda and Francisco Torres. I've got some uniforms back at the Yard running the names to see what we can dig up, but there hasn't been enough time for us to nail down anything solid."

"Check on professional athletes first, it's likely that was her profession."

"How can you even tell that?"

Despite Lestrade's disbelieving question he already had his phone out, shooting off a text to his man at the Yard. Many years and many cases had taught him not to doubt Sherlock's word on these things. Sherlock- almost smiled at the reaction but brushed the not-quite-emotion aside in favor of examining the victim's hands.

Sure enough, the signs of bruising were already well underway. Luckily, though, the marks hadn't yet reached the darkened stage of those in the morgue. Her already dark complexion rendered it impossible for Sherlock to make out any of the stamp on Miranda's hand, but Francisco's clearly displayed the mark. After snapping a picture of it with his phone, Sherlock stood.

He turned in a slow circle, examining the rest of the area. The alley was a frequent footpath and showed the signs of being well traveled. Unfortunately, this made it all the harder to identify whether or not the killer had been there. Like the other crime scenes, though, there didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle.

How was it possible that the killer was restraining and killing these people in these high traffic areas without being seen and without leaving evidence? Sherlock had to admit he was good, at least as good as Moriarty in covering up his tracks.

"Well, it' clear he's picking these specific victims. They weren't chosen at random just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's trying to get something from them."

"And what, when he doesn't get it he drains their blood? Sounds like a lunatic to me. The two of you would probably get along well."

Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted to _will_ the annoyance away, but Anderson was still standing there when he opened his eyes.

"Obviously," he leveled the man with a withering look, "the blood was exactly the thing the killer wanted. Likely, he believes that it contains some sort of property that will benefit him in some way, either by consuming it or using it in a ritual of some sort. There was something about the blood of each of these victims that appealed to him in some way."

"So he thinks he's a vampire?"

"Highly unlikely. Now, do us all a favor, would you Anderson? Keep your mouth shut, preferably forever."

Movement at the edge of the crime scene caught Sherlock's eye and he was striding away from the conversation without bothering to listen to Anderson's retort. Honestly, he wondered how that man managed to survive day to day life, but he had bigger things to concentrate on. One of his homeless was standing just outside of the police tape, looking clearly uncomfortable.

Understandably enough, it was rare for a member of Sherlock's network to show up at a crime scene. Yarders and the deviants of society didn't often mix. So, when one of them did show up, it told the detective that the information they had was quite the big deal. It was the kind of information that had a way of turning the tables in a case, for better or for worse.

Ducking under the tape, Sherlock made a beeline for the grungy older gentleman who was shifting nervously from foot to foot. A junkie, he likely had contraband on him at the moment, making him all the more likely to be displeased by the police presence. Sherlock cut right to the chase.

"What have you got for me?"

"Only what you asked for." The man handed him a slip of paper, a quick glance revealing an address, before leaning in and lowering his voice. "I don't know what you want with that place, Mr. Holmes, but I'd stay away if I were you. Bad things happen there."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"What kinds of things?"

The man was already shaking his head and backing away.

"_Bad_ things. That's all I can say. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Holmes. Don't go there."

With one last nervous look around, the man turned and disappeared into the crowd. Part of Sherlock wanted to pursue him, but a feeling in his gut told him that the lead in his hand was more important. Gripping the paper tightly, the brunette threw a hand out to hail a cab.

"Lestrade!"

The DI arrived at the same time as the cab. Sherlock wasted no time in pulling open the door and shoving the older man inside, ignoring his surprised yell. Piling in after him, Sherlock thrust the scrap of paper at the driver.

"Take us to that address."

Lestrade got himself sorted out as the cab pulled back into traffic.

"What the bloody Hell, Sherlock?! I was in the middle of a crime scene! You do realize this counts as kidnapping, don't you? I could arrest you for this."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Like you would arrest me for something this petty; you're better than that. Besides, I got a lead on the stamp and need to follow up on it. My skull is still on the mantle and John's at work, so you'll have to do."

The look Lestrade gave him was certainly not amused, but Sherlock managed to ignore it for the duration of the ride. The cab pulled up in front of what appeared to be an old business building and they piled out of the backseat. Sherlock paid the driver before turning to examine the building more closely.

Three stories tall, the entire front of the building was red brick. There were no windows or distinguishing marks except for a single metal door set in the wall. All in all, the building was a bit ramshackle, but the structure appeared sound. There was nothing about the building that would draw the eye. It was a prime example of the word 'nondescript.' If Sherlock were to pass this building on the street, he'd probably just walk right by it. However, now his eyes were drawn to the sun and moon emblazoned upon the establishment's door. A slight indention in the middle of the symbol showed where and eye slot could be pulled aside from inside the building.

A glance as the Detective Inspector's face showed him frowning at the door. Good, at least the man had noticed. Sherlock wasn't so sure everyone would have. Anderson, for example, likely would have missed the building completely.

"So this is where the killer found his victims?"

"It seems highly likely."

"Well then, let's let ourselves in, shall we?"

Lestrade strode purposely towards the door and rapped his knuckles sharply against the surface. Had there been a handle, Sherlock had little doubt the DI would have just yanked it open. As it was, they would need to wait for someone to let them in.

After a few moments without an answer, Lestrade struck the door with his knuckles again.

"Scotland Yard! Open up!"

Almost immediately, the eye slot was pulled to the side and a pair of eyes filled the gap. The voice which spoke was male and rough. It was most likely to belong to a bouncer of some sort.

"What do you want?"

Lestrade pulled out his ID.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. We have some questions for you."

"Yeah? Like what?"

The man was clearly not interested in having this conversation. His blatant issues with authority left Sherlock well inclined towards allowing Lestrade to carry on as the lead in this discussion.

"We have reason to believe that several recent murder victims were clients of your establishment. We've come to speak with the owner or manager."

"I'm afraid the owner's not here right now."

"When will they be back? We'd be happy to wait."

"I'm pretty sure she's supposed to be back right around…never."

He slammed the eye slot shut before either man could react. Lestrade blinked at the door for a moment before visibly steeling himself and knocking hard against it again. He kept up a constant barrage of knocks until the slot opened again and the same eyes as before made an appearance, noticeably more irritated now.

"_What?_"

Sherlock was proud of the almost pleasant smile that the DI painted across his face. How had he not seen this side of Lestrade before?

"So sorry to disturb you again, but perhaps you misheard me. I'm from New Scotland Yard and we're on a murder investigation. I suggest you open up or I'll be coming back with a warrant. Do you really want that kind of publicity?"

A gruff bark of laughter told to two investigator's exactly what the bouncer thought of Lestrade's suggestion.

"I'd like to see you try, big man. Tell you what, you come back with a warrant and I'll personally lick the very ground you walk on. But, seeing as how you won't be getting one, I suggest you get the Hell out. You're not getting in here, face it."

He slid the piece shut again, much to Sherlock's annoyance. The consultant peered up and down the street before heading towards the nearest alley. Lestrade hurried after him.

"Where are you going?"

"An establishment of this size, with this kind of security, is likely a club. They cater to powerful clients, going by the bouncer's lack of fear when you threatened to get a search warrant. Establishments like this need supply deliveries. It's unlikely they'd bring food and drink deliveries through the front door. There is likely a back entrance."

Unfortunately, this theory proved to be less than accurate. Not only was there no delivery bay or back entrance in that alley, there wasn't one in any of the surrounding alleys. Sherlock grimaced in frustration.

"It doesn't make any sense! Even if they were into something illegal, they would still need a deliver bay! Better for hiding their activities. How is there nothing?"

He continued to make known his irritation to the world all the way through the cab ride back to Baker St. It was nearly 6:30 in the afternoon and John would be coming home in the next hour or so. Perhaps his presence would help Sherlock come up with a workable explanation instead of the mystery presented before him. He took up residence in his usual chair, hands pressed together under his chin and elbows on his knees.

While the consultant imitated a statue, Lestrade paced up and down the living room of 221B. His phone was pressed to his ear as he tried in vain to obtain a search warrant for the establishment with the sun and moon on its door. It probably didn't help that he couldn't even tell them what the establishment was a business in, but he still found it ridiculous that it was so hard to obtain a warrant. Door after door was shut to him.

This was how John found them, Lestrade verbally abusing his mobile while Sherlock seemed lost to the world.

"Something happen with the case, then?"

He kept one eye on them while heading to the kitchen to put away groceries. The Tesco's bag clutched in one hand clearly indicated he'd stopped for milk and jam on the way home. Sherlock pulled himself from his mind palace to follow the blonde from the room.

"We've been shut out of an establishment that holds the key to solving this case. If we can get in there, we can figure out what it is that connects the victims. As it stands, I don't have enough data. However, I know that all four victims were clients there."

John looked over his shoulder in surprise before turning to face his flat mate.

"Four? I thought this was for the case with the two bodies?"

Lestrade leaned sullenly against the door to the kitchen, adding his two cents to the conversation.

"It is. Two more bodies showed up this afternoon. Sherlock was able to connect them through a stamp on the back of each victim's hand. We traced it back to a club of some kind, but they won't let us in or answer any questions."

"Can't you get a search warrant?"

Lestrade swiped a hand through his hair.

"I've been trying to do just that for the past few hours, but I can't find a judge to sign off on it. Every time I call I get the same response of not having sufficient evidence. It's bloody bullshit!"

John frowned and walked past them into the living room, bending over the coffee table to pick up the piece of paper where Sherlock had doodled the symbol again. Sherlock couldn't have missed the way John's entire body tensed if he'd wanted to.

"You recognize it?"

Excitement coursed through his veins. Finally they were going to get somewhere with this case! Perhaps John could give them some insight into the establishment. Did he know what their purpose was?

He was so wrapped up in the thrill of things that he almost missed the dark cloud that had crossed John's expression.

"Sherlock, I want you to drop this case."

The brunette could only blink in surprise, mouth agape, as Lestrade blew up at his flat mate.

"What the Hell, John?! People are getting killed out there and you want him to _drop the case_?! Sherlock's the best asset we have and right now he's the only one with any hope of bringing the killer to justice!"

"You don't think I know that?! Those people who died, I feel _damn_ bad for them, Lestrade, but I can't let this happen! You want to know if I recognize this design? The answer is yes! And I know how dangerous that means this case is! You were told you couldn't get a search warrant because of a lack of evidence? Well, rest assured that had _nothing _to do with it. You could have a body nailed to their door and you wouldn't get in there."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he suddenly surged forward. He wasn't quite in John's face, but he was close.

"And how, exactly, do you know?"

The muscle in John's jaw twitched as it clenched.

"I can't tell you." He let out a sigh and turned away, setting the piece of paper down on the coffee table. "Trust me. I know you don't understand, but it's for your own goo-"

He stopped short of whatever he was going to say, his eyes riveted on the table. Sherlock stepped to the side to see what had his attention and spotted a picture of the most recent murder victims that Lestrade had ordered Donovan to send over and Sherlock had printed out. John was staring at the man's face with a look that displayed clear personal pain. Another piece clicked into place.

"You knew him."

"Both of them. I was in their wedding. He was…He was like a son to me, at one time." John picked up the picture with a trembling hand. It was the first time Sherlock had ever seen his hands shake. "They were the victims today?"

Neither Lestrade nor Sherlock answered. Neither of them needed to.

John's hand clenched around the photo, crumpling the edges. Despite having his back to them, his anger seeped from every pore. A minute of silence reigned throughout the flat before he turned to face them, every bit the soldier he'd once been.

"Sherlock?"

The brunette raised his head in response, but gave no verbal reply. Lestrade waited behind him with baited breath.

"I can get you into that club and let you talk to the owner, but you have to promise me you won't ask any questions. I won't be able to explain much, but you'll need to do exactly as I tell you, end of story. If you're coming too, Lestrade, the same applies."

Sherlock's curls bobbed as he nodded.

"Done."

A/N: So that's it for now! I can't wait to see you all next chapter! As you might expect, John's secrets will be revealed! Well, at the very least some of them will be. Please review and tell me what you think! After all, I am lost without my readers.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So, apparently I become very productive under stress. This past week has been quite…trying for me as my brother was in the hospital. More on that later. For now, please enjoy the newest chapter of Exsanguination!

Chapter 2

A metallic scrape accompanied the motion of the eye slot sliding to the side. A sliver of light shone out into the street. The same pair of eyes from earlier appeared in the gap. A split second later, they were glaring out at Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Oh, for the love of-UGH! Look, I told you, you're not getting in here. Since we both know you couldn't get a warrant, why don't you just bugger off?"

It was at this point that John stepped forward, into the man's line of sight. His usual pleasant demeanor was replaced by tension and aggression. He'd been brooding throughout the cab ride over. Whatever his connection to the two latest victims was, their deaths certainly affected him.

"I think you may change your mind about that."

The eyes snapped to John and widened comically.

"Doctor! These two are with you?"

"Obviously."

For a moment, with that one word, Sherlock could have believed he was standing next to Mycroft. Having that feeling with John around was disconcerting to say the least. He didn't like it.

There was a brief pause as the eyes disappeared before the door opened. The eyes appeared again, this time attached to a body. The bouncer was on the buff side, as would be expected, and his expression was sour, if a bit cautious when looking at John.

The three men filed inside without preamble and Sherlock's gaze swept over the room. It was relatively plain, with a hallway leading off to one side and a simple desk and chair pressed into a corner. The bouncer picked up a stamp from the desk and pressed it against the back of each of their hands.

Sherlock eyed the sun embossed upon his skin before sneaking a peak at the Detective Inspector's. Sure enough, the sun decorated his skin as well, no moon in sight. John's hand, however, was stamped with the same sun and moon design that had been on the victim's hands. Sherlock's eyes narrowed again, something they'd been doing a lot lately. There were too many mysteries piling up that didn't make sense.

The bouncer hadn't switched out stamps between their hands, nor pressed it against an ink pad. Though Sherlock had watched him closely, he hadn't caught the man make any adjustments to the mechanism. There was no explanation for how the design had been switched. Furthermore, it was implausible that the stamp would have held enough ink to stamp all three of their hands as clearly as it did, not to mention the fact that the ink of Sherlock's hand was no heavier than that on Lestrade's or John's.

What Sherlock's mind was really focused upon, however, was why himself and Lestrade warranted only a sun while John got the sun and the moon stamp. The first possibility was that the sun and the moon signified a member of the club while the sun indicated a nonmember. It seemed an easy enough explanation except that it didn't add up with the first victim. Darren Clark had been deployed with the military for the past five years, how would he have been a member of the club? It was possible he'd just joined, but it seemed pointless as he was about to leave again. Why would he bother joining a club for so short a time?

His musings were cut short as John began speaking.

"The main club is through the doors at the end of the hall. I need to speak with Dominic for a moment. You two go ahead but, Sherlock, whatever you do, do _not_ go into the main club without me."

The brunette gave a short nod before heading down the dimly-lit hall, Lestrade trailing after him. The DI leaned close to speak in a hushed voice.

"What was up with that stamp? I'm sure you saw something I didn't, but how did it change like that?"

"I don't know."

Sherlock's irritation grew at the shocked look on Lestrade's face. Greg just groaned and swiped a hand over his face.

"I hate this case. I really, really hate this case."

As John had said, a pair of swinging doors stood at the end of the wall. Though neither could see inside, they could hear the thumping of the music and see flashing lights around the frame of the door. Sherlock moved to push through them only to have Lestrade catch his arm.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing? John said to wait for him."

"He hasn't been exactly forthcoming with information. I want to know what's really going on here."

"Sherlock, you and I both know that John wouldn't hide something without a good reason. This is clearly a very dangerous situation."

"Don't you think I know that, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock used his title to tell Lestrade exactly how irritated he was with the entire situation. "John is somehow connected to these people. If they're dangerous, that means they could endanger him and that is _not _something I am willing to risk!"

The last part was hissed out and, quite honestly, not something Sherlock had meant to let slip. Though entirely true, the younger Holmes didn't exactly want to go around advertising his questionable feelings towards John. The slip worked in his favor, however, since the DI's gaze softened.

"For John, then. But when he blows a gasket, I'm telling him I tried to stop you!"

Sherlock nodded sharply before turning back to the doors and pushing through. It didn't escape his notice that the music cut off at the exact same moment his hand touched the door, but that didn't change the fact that the entire club was silent as the stepped inside. A sea of faces stared up at them as they descended the five stairs to the main level, but Sherlock was busy studying the room itself.

The room was expansive and dark, though several lights still flashed around the building Sherlock could still not see into all the corners. A bar ran along one wall, the curved surface under-lit by blue light. Three bartenders stood behind the counter, telling Sherlock that this was a fairly busy establishment. The faint hint of glitter under the glossy surface of the floor indicated a distinctly cultivated feel. This establishment catered to a very specific clientele. A door stood at the other end of the room, much like the ones they'd just stepped through. A sign reading 'Employees Only' decorated it's front.

Tables and booths were scattered around the outer edge of the room, most occupied by various individuals. Several gilded cages hung from the ceiling with performers in bright, skimpy clothes inside. A large dance floor filled the center of the room with a DJ box overlooking it. There were perhaps two hundred figures in the room, and each one of them had their gaze fixed on the newcomers.

A tattooed man with a number of piercings stepped out of the crowd. He was bald, likely by choice, and his tattoos framed his eyes in a clear attempt to make himself more intimidating. His leather jacket and heavy boots said biker while his muscles and sour expression indicated troublemaker. His general posture also told Sherlock he wasn't happy with their appearance.

"Oi! What the bloody Hell are these two Sunners doing here? I didn't come here to have my party crashed."

Sherlock scoffed at his obvious front. Several individuals the man had been near rolled their eyes, clearly exasperated by his behavior. Apparently, causing a scene was nothing new to him. The man didn't take his derisive expression well.

"What're you scoffing at, Sunner? You shouldn't even be here."

"If you spent half as much time paying attention to others as you do trying to _look_ the part of a powerful leader, maybe you'd know."

"Why you little piece of shite!"

The man surged forward, fist pulled back to strike Sherlock's face. He moved with startling speed, catching the consultant by surprise. The brunette had little doubt he'd have wound up on the ground if the doors behind him hadn't slammed open, banging loudly off the wall.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. I'm _really_ not in the mood."

A murmur swept the crowd as John descended into the room. His expression was irritated, something that Sherlock felt looked odd on his face but that he'd been wearing often since finding out about the latest murders. At the moment, his irritation was clearly directed at the man who still had his fist raised to strike Sherlock. Not seeming to acknowledge the fact that the other man had nearly a foot on him, John stepped between him and Sherlock.

"Back off, _mutt_, I don't like it when others touch what's mine."

The man wrinkled his nose, clearly not happy to see John, either. In yet another move that made Sherlock suspicious, though, he did exactly as suggested. What kind of power did his unassuming flat mate wield in this circle?

"Didn't realize they belonged to you, Doctor. Maybe you should keep a better eye on your things."

That was the second time someone connected to the case had used John's medical title. Was he that well-known here? Did his medical degree have something to do with his place in this group? Sherlock shelved that question as John began walking through the room, clearly ignoring the man's statement. The crowd before him parted like a sea, making room for him to walk. After a moment's pause, Sherlock and Lestrade moved to follow him.

It wasn't until Sherlock was walking past that the leather-clad man made another move. Leaning forward just a touch, he growled at the brunette, literally growled like a dog. It was low and quiet, meant as a threat. Still, Sherlock blinked in surprise at the speed with which John was back at his side, hand clenched around the man's neck. The blonde held him for a moment before pushing him away, sending him down on his arse. If John had looked irritated before, he looked downright angry now.

"I told you to _back off_. Don't disobey me again."

Although he hadn't said it, the 'or else' hung heavy in the air. John turned slowly to survey the room. No one stepped forward to answer his silent challenge, but that didn't seem to settle his nerves much. Seamlessly, the blonde slipped between his two companions, his back to Lestrade and facing Sherlock. He reach back to pull the DI's face into his neck at the same time as he yanked Sherlock forward.

To say Sherlock Holmes was surprised that straight-as-a-rail John Watson was kissing him would be a gross understatement. However, he managed to keep that surprise off his face as his flat mate's mouth ravaged his own. John's lips were rough and a bit chapped, but they moved with the precision of someone with plenty of experience. (This hardly surprised Sherlock, the way the doctor flitted between women.)

For a moment, the rest of the club melted away. It was only John and Sherlock and their lips. Eventually, after what felt like centuries to the brunette, the kiss was interrupted. John jerked back as a voice rang out through the club and Sherlock had the oddest urge to follow him.

"And who, exactly, is it causing such a disturbance in my club?"

The woman speaking had appeared from the door marked 'Employees Only.' She appeared to be in her early twenties, with brown hair in the short bob cut that had been so popular in the early 1900's. Her skirt suit was pitch black, making the edges hard to make out in the dark, but Sherlock had no doubts it was cut to perfectly hug her frame. One side of the knee-length skirt was split all the way to the hip, showing off a white lace garter to match the shirt under for jacket. The jacket itself was held closed by two ornate silver buttons along the right side. Four strings of pearls roped her neck to complete the outfit, along with a silver claw on her right middle finger.

She looked deadly.

"Sorry, Benedicta. We didn't mean to cause a scene."

Her stern expression softened as it lit upon John.

"Well, well, if it isn't Doctor John. To what do we owe the pleasure? A man of your distinction wouldn't be here to mingle."

She uttered the last word with a hint of distaste, as if the mere thought were beneath her.

"Came to see you, actually. Are you free?"

"For you, John? Always. Come, we can speak in my office."

She gestured to the door behind her with one perfectly manicured hand and the trio moved forward. Once again, the crowd parted for them and they moved through without problems. They were moving up the stairs towards her when she lifted one finger to her red-painted lips as though remembering something.

"Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Jerome?" The bald man looked up from his grumbling, clearly still angry. "Get out of my club."

Without waiting for a response, she turned and promptly strode through the door, pausing only long enough for John to hold it open for her. They entered another hallway, this one with more doors on either side. As they strode down the hall, Benedicta's heels clicking loudly, Sherlock took a moment to examine his reaction to the earlier kiss.

Though in all previous experience Sherlock was strictly asexual, this particular incident had been…pleasant. He knew of course that John had performed the task out of necessity to provide both himself and Lestrade a measure of safety among those within the club. By giving the illusion of a sexual relationship, and thus ownership, John's authority would extend to the two of them.

The bald man, Jerome, had referred to them as 'Sunners,' no doubt a reference to the stamp on the back of their hands. The term was remarkably similar to 'sinners' and was likely a type of derogatory slang. Clearly, those with the sun stamp were considered outsiders. As an insider, and apparently a prominent one, John had provided them with access that would have otherwise been denied. It was an easy solution.

Sherlock couldn't help feeling conflicted about the action, however. When John had moved away, he'd felt the urge to follow him and resume their previous activity. While Sherlock was not inexperienced in kissing, this particular feeling was new to him. He'd kissed plenty of people over the years, mostly for the sake of a case, but he had never before particularly enjoyed it. Perhaps it was due to John's evident level of experience, but Sherlock wasn't so sure.

It seemed unlikely that merely a level of skill could provoke such reactions from him. He'd never been shy about the idea that his brain came first and his body came second. He kept up with the bare essentials, such as occasionally eating and the bare minimum of sleep, but everything else was transport. He saw no reason for that to change now, except of course for the inexplicable fact that it seemed to be. As they filed into Benedicta's office, Sherlock resolved to spend more time examining this event at a later date. For now, the case took precedence.

The office was not overly-large, but still bigger than most. A mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room. The far wall held two bookshelves framing an ornate portrait of a dark, brooding man. The gold placard along the bottom of the frame described the well-dressed man as Udi von Alon. The painting appeared to be early 19th century in style. A long, Victorian era couch sat before the desk. The upholstery was white while the carved black trim wound decorative designs around the piece. Clearly, this woman had a thing for classic colors.

Benedicta strode around the desk and took a seat in a high-backed, black, leather chair. She gestured for them to take a seat, an offer which John and Lestrade took. Sherlock, however, preferred to stand. He had much too much energy to sit right now.

"It's been such a long time, John. I thought you were trying to take a little break from all this." She gestured vaguely to the air, as if you indicate the club. "Can I assume you're break is over?"

"Not by choice, I can assure you. Lestrade here is a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard and Sherlock consults on some of his cases. A lead brought them to your club, but your bouncer turned them away."

"That is, after all, what I pay him for."

"Of course, which is why I came back with them tonight. I was hoping you could answer some of their questions, though I know there are…_certain things_ you won't be able to talk about."

Subtlety had never been John's strong suit, but Sherlock had to wonder if he was even trying. Benedicta steepled her fingers and rested her elbows on the desk.

"And you, John? What's your stake in all this? I know you can be downright nauseously kind at times, but risking so much for some people you don't know seems far-fetched."

"You've heard about the murders, I'm sure. They're the ones where the bodies have been found in the alleys, drained of blood."

"I've heard of them, of course. My business is information."

"Two more were found today, Miranda and Francisco."

The woman sat back in her chair, shock written all over her face.

"No…I hadn't heard…Oh, John, I'm so sorry."

Her sympathetic tone rang sincere, further backing up Sherlock's theory that the relationship between John and the victims ran deeper than he was letting on. John's fist clenched against his knee and Sherlock could make out the creases of anger around his mouth. When he spoke, though, his voice was measured.

"Right now I just want to catch the killer. Sherlock could make the difference in making that happen, so I'm willing to try anything."

Benedicta nodded sharply, sitting up straight and becoming all business again. She pulled a file across the desk towards her.

"When I heard about the earlier murders I went ahead and began compiling what information I could. As you can understand, I don't take kindly to someone killing off my patrons. The first two victims had both been here within a few days of their murder. Francisco and Miranda were here just last night. I remember because it had been so long. They'd been in Africa for…" she paused to let her gaze flicker to Sherlock and Lestrade, "years. They arrived around 11 and stayed until at least three, maybe four in the morning. Francisco was talking about going to see you. He came to see if I knew how to find you."

"You always have been the one to go to for that kind of thing."

"Well, you did kind of just drop off the map, John. Did you expect everyone to just forget about you?"

John wore that sad little smile he got whenever he talked about something that caused him pain and Sherlock felt a tug in his chest. He didn't like that look.

"I suppose not. What else can you tell us?"

"Not much, unfortunately. I can review the security footage, though, and get back to you."

Sherlock leaned forward.

"I didn't see any cameras in the club, or outside. What kind of system do you use?"

Benedicta's smile turned mischievous and perhaps a touch sharp.

"Oh, don't you worry about that. We have a custom system, very advanced."

"Perhaps you would be willing to turn the footage over to the Yard? Or even just allow Sherlock to view it? No offence, but we are trained for this sort of thing. We may pick up something you missed."

"I'm afraid I can't do that Inspector…Lestrade, was it? Turning over the tapes is entirely out of the question. Rest assured, though, that they will be thoroughly looked over. You have my word."

Now Sherlock was starting to get irritated. All of these dead ends were beginning to drive him mad.

"And what exactly is that supposed to count for?"

Benedicta's eyebrows rose as John leaned forward to intercede, ever the peace-keeper.

"Ben, please, do you know who would do this? Or why? Anything you know would help."

Sighing, the woman shook her head.

"I'm sorry, John, but I haven't heard anything about something like this going down. If I had, you know I wouldn't have let it happen. I don't know why, either. Could be it's a ritual of some sort. You and I both know who would be able to answer that question."

"No. Absolutely not."

John's adamant refusal surprised everyone in the room. Since his discovery of the latest victims, he'd seemed focused entirely upon getting Sherlock and Lestrade the access and information they needed, short of whatever it was about this place that would endanger them. Benedicta didn't seem to understand his refusal either.

"John, I know things ended roughly there, but if anyone can figure this out, it's Nic. He's an expert."

"I said no, alright? It's way too dangerous, all things considered." He slid a glance sideways at Sherlock. "Look, I can't have this conversation right now."

Benedicta glared at him.

"When are you going to have it, then? When someone else you love winds up as a corpse? You came here for information, John."

The blonde grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Several moments passed before he managed to control his temper and turn to his two companions.

"I need you two to wait outside. Dominic can escort you through the club, but I need to talk to Benedicta for a moment alone."

As if on cue, the office door swung open and the bouncer stuck his head in. He looked as disgruntled as before.

"Babysitting duty. Great."

Sherlock was no more thrilled. Sullenly, he pushed off the wall and headed for the door, accompanied by Lestrade. He shot one last look at John before following the bouncer out.

Jerome took them out a different way, using the back passages to circumnavigate the club. Apparently, he didn't want to risk another outburst like the earlier one. Grumbling under his breath the entire way, he led them back in the original room and towards the exit. He held out a piece of paper to Lestrade.

"Here, the Doc wanted me to get him a number and there it is. Make sure it gets to him."

Lestrade looked up in confusion.

"Why me?"

"Because _he_," the bouncer nodded to Sherlock, "wouldn't give it to him. Now get out before you annoy me any more than you already have."

By the time they were out in the alley, Sherlock was downright pissed off. Hands shoved in coat pockets, he stomped away from the door and towards the entrance to the nearby alley. Lestrade scurried after him.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!"

The consultant paid him no mind and he rounded the corner, just wanting something to do in order to redirect his anger. He didn't like not knowing what was going on, especially not when it involved John.

A group of the homeless was huddled around a metal barrel at the other end of the alley. This time of year the weather was getting colder and they shuffled to each get a good position around the fire lit within. They weren't a part of Sherlock's network and he could hardly spare the thought of recruiting them at the moment.

Giving into a fit of pique, Sherlock kicked a stone rather savagely. It skittered off down the alley, not doing hardly anything to ease the brunette's ire. Nor was it eased by the chuckles that filled the air.

"What's this? Are you mad, little Sunner? Did Daddy send you away while he conducted business? Well, that's just fine by me. I'd be happy to provide a little entertainment."

Sherlock's gaze whipped back the way they'd come, spotting the bald man from the club standing in the mouth of the alley. Beside him, he could feel Lestrade stiffen. The smile that decorated the man's face said he was definitely not here for a pleasant chat.

"I don't know about you two, but I like to play with my food a bit before I eat it."

Sherlock lifted his chin, stubbornly refusing to be intimidated.

"It figures someone as atrocious with social customs would have disgusting eating manners as well. Tell me, however have you managed to last this long?"

The man growled, louder than earlier. It startled Sherlock with just how dog-like it sounded. A human shouldn't have been able to make that noise.

"You know what? I've had just about enough of you. You walk about like you're all that, but without the Doctor here to protect you, you're nothing. Well, that's not quite right…" His grin turned downright feral. "You're _mine_, pretty boy."

Sherlock almost couldn't believe what happened next. Before their very eyes, the man's body began to shift. He yanked off his jacket as his bones appeared to snap and rearrange themselves. His face morphed into a snout with long, drool-dripping fangs and course hair began sprouting from his entire body. Pointed ears pushed out of the side of his head as the beast threw back his head and howled.

Surprised shouts and the pounding of feet behind him told Sherlock that the homeless had made a run for it, but he couldn't quite pay attention to that. All of his focus was on the _werewolf_ standing before him. Lestrade swore colorfully beside him.

The beast's gaze snapped down and its lips pulled back in a growl. Against all logic, it began to speak again, though the words had a growled edge to them.

"What's the matter, pretty boy? Scared I might bite? You _should be_."

The beast leapt at them, charging forward at a speed Sherlock would have been unprepared for if he hadn't seen the earlier display in the club. Grabbing Lestrade by the lapels, he dove sideways and out of the way. The werewolf just barely missed them, claws digging into the cement as it tried to turn as it landed.

"Fast reflexes you've got there. Good. I'd hate for this to be over quickly."

The wolf charged again, but Sherlock had nowhere to go. His back was, quite literally, to a wall. Was this it? Was this how the great Sherlock Holmes was going to die, ripped apart by a mythical creature in an alley?

Sherlock could feel the beast's breath on his face before something slammed into its side and the furred creature was sent tumbling. Recovering quickly, both investigators scrambled towards the mouth of the alley. If nothing else, it would provide a better vantage point for escape from another attack.

Looking back to see what had saved them, Sherlock was shocked to see John facing down the creature.

"I warned you not to disobey me again, Jerome. Looks like you're no better at following that order than your father was. Lucky me, I get to end your line for good this time. I'd hate the thought of having to deal with this situation a third time."

The significance of that confession was not lost of Sherlock or Lestrade, who realized that John had just confessed to killing this…creature's father. However, there seemed to be more pressing matters at hand.

The wolf let out an infuriated howl, apparently too enraged for words. It charged forward, wicked claws grasping for the blonde. John, however, ducked under the outstretched limb to punch the creature square in the jaw. A high whimper sounded as the creature went tumbling to the side. It crashed into the wall and crumpled.

John turned quickly to Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Are you two alright? It didn't bite you, did it?"

"John, look out!"

The warning came too late, though, as the creature surged back into action. The crumple had obviously been faked as it struck out with a clawed hand again, catching John across his back and throwing John clear across the alley…right into the burning fire in the old oil drum which all but exploded on contact.

"_JOHN!_"

John's form didn't move.

"Oh, bloody Hell…Sherlock, please tell me that did not just happen."

Truthfully, Sherlock hadn't thought himself capable of the emotions that coursed through him in that moment. He'd just witnessed a man turn into a werewolf and attack him, but that hardly seemed to matter in the face of his best friend and flat mate being killed. For some reason, his mind flitted back to that kiss in the club. The pain was excruciating.

The werewolf laughed harshly.

"So this is all it takes to defeat the great Doctor? I expected more from him, really, but I guess one can't place too much stock in legends, after all." He turned back towards the two horrified men. "Now, which of you would like to die next?"

"Neither of them, preferably."

The attention of all three snapped back towards the barrel, where a blackened and burnt figure was dragging itself into a standing position. Still on fire, it strode out of the flames. A quick flick of the figure's wrist put the flames out and Sherlock watched in disbelieving fascination as the charred skin began to heal itself. Moments later, John stood before them again, completely healed. His cloths were mostly burnt off, but the important bits were still covered. He looked just as he did before.

Except, of course, for his jet black eyes and the fangs poking out of his mouth.

"I didn't see that surprise attack coming at all. Clearly, I'm out of practice. Still, I suppose I should thank you…for blowing my cover and all. Now I don't have to hold back."

And, with that, he vanished.

A/N: How did you all like it? Unfortunately, the first several chapters is going to deal a lot with explaining the world and how everything works, but I'm trying to throw some fun stuff in there too! The next two chapters will have a lot of informational content, but I'll be trying to make it as fun and entertaining as possible. More progress in Sherlock and John's relationship! Also, great fun with John's newly revealed powers!

Speaking of which, I'm sure most of you have figured it out by now. That being said, I'm still going to try and throw a few surprises in there with it. I hope you enjoy!

As I mentioned in my pre-chapter Author's Note, my brother was in the hospital this week with multiple skull fractures and bruising to his brain. It was an awful, awful experience in which I cried in public and nearly decked one of my coworkers. (Not normal behavior.) Good news, though! He is going to be okay. He is still in the hospital but will be released soon. The bright side of this situation is that I've been getting a lot of writing done.

I have this story plotted out through most of Chapter 5 and it looks like it's going to be a bit longer than my other story, Scream. That was 15 chapters and an interlude and this one looks like its shaping up to be about 20. That could change in the future, though.

Also, I have written a Johnlock one-shot based on my experience with my brother that I will be posting later on tonight after my beta has a chance to look at it. Please check it out for fluff and love! (No supernatural element)

Please review! Remember, it is the only payment we fanfiction writers get! Also, I apologize for the overly-long Author's Note. I promise, this will not be the norm.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Here's chapter 3! Right on schedule. I hope you all are enjoying this…I'm not hearing much…Still, things are starting to get interesting!

BONUS: I'm getting ART! I have been contacted by a reader who would like to do art for this story! When she gets it finished I will be posting links! I am incredibly honored and blown away and wanted to share the news!

Chapter 3

Sherlock later realized that John hadn't disappeared at all, only appeared to. He had, in fact, simply moved at a speed faster than the human eye could track, giving the illusion of disappearing…because that made the whole situation so much less weird.

It took him less than five seconds to finish the fight, reappearing above the werewolf's head and driving his hand down through his neck. The blow would have severed the spinal cord instantly, not to mention the windpipe. Sherlock and Lestrade could only gape as John planted one foot against the collapsed creature's back and yanked his hand out, shaking it in disgust.

"Ugh! I hate wolf blood! The stink takes weeks to wash off!"

"I was going to step in, but it looked like you had things pretty well handled. Falling for that fake unconsciousness bit, though…really, John."

Benedicta strode down the alley way towards them, appearing calm as ever. Clearly, a man turning into a monster and being slaughtered was an everyday occurrence for her. She waved a dismissive hand at the corpse.

"I'll have someone come deal with that. Shall we step back inside? You're friends look like they could sit down."

For the first time, John seemed to notice them again. His expression instantly turned sheepish as the fangs retracted and the black seeped back until only his pupils remained the color of pitch.

"Um, I can explain?"

Lestrade recovered his voice first, but Sherlock just felt like he was still watching the entire things through someone else's eyes. This kind of thing just didn't happen in real life.

"You bloody well _better_ be able to! What the Hell was that?"

John opened and shut him mouth several times, starting and stopping words before they even got out. Benedicta rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please. It's clear what's going on here. Obviously, the creature that just attacked you was a werewolf. His name was Jerome and he ran a pack in the area. The only reason I let him into the club in the first place was because his family was so old. John, here, is a vampire. In fact, he's one of the oldest and most powerful vampires in existence today. I, too, am a vampire and this club serves an exclusively supernatural clientele."

"Benedicta!"

The woman scoffed at John's scandalized expression.

"As if you could come up with a convincing lie, what with how brilliant you've been telling me that adorable little flat mate of yours is. Besides, if two vampires as powerful and influential as we are decide to let a couple of humans in on our world, we're damn well going to do it. You practically made the laws, John, exactly who do you think is going to get onto you about them? Do away with your doubts, Doctor. They are such frivolous irritants."

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. He had to be mishearing something. John looked at him sympathetically.

"We should go inside. It'd be better to continue this discussion there."

She turned and tapped the brick wall along the side of the alley. As if from nowhere, a door appeared. It was basic, metal, and appeared exactly like the one at the front of the building with the exception of a door handle. Benedicta pulled it open and held it for them.

"It's a simple transportation spell. I had the building set up with them as soon as I acquired the place. Come along now."

Cautiously, Sherlock approached the door. Many believed that his curiosity led to recklessness, but the detective knew very well when to rush into a situation and when to hang back. This particular situation was one where he found himself particularly out of his depth.

John was a vampire?

It didn't make any sense…except it did. He'd seen with his own eyes how that man, Jerome, had shifted into a part wolf, part man hybrid. He'd also seen how John had moved at such high speeds and had the strength to thrust his hand _into_ the other creature's body. That wasn't something a human could do.

But, really? Sweater-wearing John was a blood-drinking undead?

His mind pulled an old case up from the archives of his palace. It had been brought to him several years before he'd met John, back when he was really just getting started with this whole consulting detective gig. A man had come to him, utterly convinced that his daughter had been turned into a vampire. Sherlock had, at the time, dismissed the case. Now, however, he wondered if there had been any truth in the matter.

As if to follow up this acquisition, his mind provided another memory. This time, it was of John's initial reaction when they'd been told about the Baskerville case. He'd been antsy and more attentive than usual, despite being less talkative. As they had learned more about the case, though, he'd relaxed. Could it have been that he was suspicious of supernatural activity and relaxed only upon realizing its unlikelihood?

There was also the irrefutable evidence of the way John's appearance had changed for those few minutes of action. The blacked-out eyes and fangs were a definite indicator that things weren't quite right. It wasn't the most horrifying image of a vampire he'd ever seen, but it was certainly…unsettling. It was also a far cry from the romanticized image of vampires that was so often portrayed by the media.

It would be interesting to discover all of the differences for himself. In fact, it occurred to Sherlock that this could be a rather fascinating experience. Sherlock already trusted John with his life and that wasn't likely to change just because of a couple fangs and a little blood drinking. (The consultant was forced to admit to himself that he probably had worse habits than that on his own.)

Seizing Lestrade by the shoulder, he doubted the DI would move otherwise, he headed through the newly appeared doorway. The inspector leaned over to hiss into his ear.

"Did you know about this, Sherlock? Because I, for one, have no bloody clue what's going on and I'm not exactly enjoying it."

"It appears John has been keeping a pretty large secret from us. Let's hear him out before we make any final judgments, shall we?"

Sherlock had no plans of leaving John because of this discovery. It wasn't like he felt endangered by the apparent vampire. After all, they'd lived together for so long now that if John had wanted to attack him he would have done so long ago.

Stepping through the doorway, Sherlock was surprised to find them right back in Benedicta's office. The woman stepped in after them and returned to her seat behind the desk, John filing in after to lean against one of the bookshelves. A cursory glance over his form told Sherlock how uncomfortable he felt. Clearly, he thought this new information would change things somehow and the brunette felt his lips pull downward at the thought. Did John really believe he meant so little to his flat mate?

Elbows on the desk, Benedicta tucked her hands under her chin and stared calmly at the two men in front of her. Lestrade had sunk back down on the sofa and Sherlock lurked behind it.

"Let's cover the basics then, shall we? Yes, the supernatural world exists. Almost every creature you've ever heard of exists, in one form or another. Vampires, werewolves, demons, imps, faeries, that ridiculous Bigfoot legend from the Colonies; they are all real. Both John and I, as I've already said, are vampires. That creature outside was a werewolf. This," she gestured to the air, "is a club I opened that caters exclusively to supernatural clientele."

"Why didn't we see anything supernatural the first time we entered the club?"

The question came from Sherlock, wanting to get as much information as he could.

"I have Glamours set up to prevent such accidents from occurring. The moment your skin touched the door to enter the club the magic sensed you were human and immediately threw up a Glamour to hide the true nature of our guests. It's one of the many magical protections I've put up around the establishment."

"A Glamour?"

"It is a type of magic that comes to some naturally and others through practice and concentration. Fae, for example, are born with the ability to hide their true natures. It is a type of illusionary magic which shields the appearance of a supernatural creature so that they may hide in human society."

"So our murder victims, they were supernatural creatures?"

The smile that crept across Benedicta's face held a certain measure of pride. She liked that Sherlock was asking the right questions. Mentally, he scoffed at the thought that he would do anything else.

"Correct. Darren Clark, your first victim, was a Fae. The younger ones often enjoy involving themselves in human wars. It allows them to practice their abilities and wreak havoc with little chance of being caught. He was on his way to becoming a member of the White Wolves, the guards to the Queen of the Winter Court of the Fae."

Lestrade asked, "The Winter Court?" at the same time that Sherlock wondered, "Exactly how often do the supernatural get involved in human wars?"

Instead of Benedicta, it was John who answered both questions.

"The Fae have four courts, one for each season. They are featured in many of the stories humans tell about them and are located in different realms. Each court has the characteristics of what you might expect for that season. The Winter Court is the most war-like of the courts, but Summer is the most powerful. As for the wars, there are many of us who get involved. For some, it is about gaining power, while others fight because they believe in the cause."

"Why did you fight?"

"To get away."

A sad, far-away look filled John's eyes and Sherlock had the sense to look away. Unfortunately, Lestrade was not quite as observant.

"What were you trying to get away from?"

A sigh slipped past the blonde's lips.

"I am very old, one of the oldest vampires in existence. Despite the common misconception, immortality can be very…trying. I have reached a point where one of the only things I desire is just to be able to believe I am normal, if only for a little while."

"So you move in with Sherlock Holmes?"

A smile cracked John's lips and for a moment the sad look was wiped away.

"Yes, well, I hadn't quite counted on that bit."

A thought occurred to Sherlock and he cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"You were invalided back from Afghanistan because you'd been shot. I've even seen the scar. Back in the alley, though, you healed from the burns rather quickly. What was the difference?"

Benedicta turned slightly to look at John.

"You didn't tell me you were shot. Obviously it wasn't a normal bullet, or you wouldn't have been sent back." Her eyes narrowed and Sherlock felt a certain kinship with her for the first time. "Do tell me you slaughtered the fool who dared to harm you."

"Not quite. Unfortunately, I was rather incapacitated at the time. Without Bill Murray, I might not have even made it. I was lucky he was on my team."

"The American actor?"

John stared at Lestrade in confusion before his face cleared, seeming to finally get the reference.

"Ah, no. Though he shared the same name, Bill has no connection. He's a Glimmer Skin. They're a type of creature that can cross planes of existence. They inhabit the bodies of willing hosts in order to fight and cultivate their powers."

"And how, exactly, did he save your life?"

This was the detail that Sherlock was much more keenly interested in. He'd truly thought he'd lost John back in the alley, when he'd been thrown into the flames, and the icy tendrils of dread crept back into his chest at the mention of his loss again so soon.

"Supernaturals are common enough in war that there are often measures taken against them. There are enough on each side that it generally balances out. The bullet I was shot with was made of silver, filled with Holy Water, engraved with a cross, and had been blessed by three priests. It would have spelled bad news for any creature. Most vampires would have died instantly. I'm lucky enough to have lived so long. I managed to survive until Bill could pull the bullet out and he saw to it that I got proper, vampiric, treatments for the wound."

"He's the one you were talking to Dominic about, correct? The one you were trying to find?"

John nodded to Benedicta's question.

"Whoever this killer is, he was powerful enough to restrain each of these victims. We'll need backup, and there's no better fighter than Bill."

The mention sparked something in Lestrade and he rooted through his pocket.

"The bouncer, Dominic, gave this to me for you. I completely forgot in all the…activity."

He held the slip of paper given to him earlier out to John. The blonde took it and examined it.

"That's an Afghani area code, must be Bill's number. I'm just glad I was aware of his connection your bouncer."

"Speaking of connections, let's get back to the victims, shall we? I am quite looking forward to finding out about the others."

Benedicta nodded sharply.

"Of course. It's so easy to get off track with so much information to take in. The second victim was Elizabeth Tolbert, a harpy. The Glamour maintained on her body after death allows her to appear human, but she normally appears anything but. From what I was able to gather, she worked as an accountant at World Views Bank. This coincides with the official records except that she dealt almost exclusively with the accounts of supernatural beings."

"And the latest victims?"

Sherlock directed the question at Benedicta, but kept his eye on John instead. These victims were the ones who had a connection to John. Now that they knew about the supernatural world, John would feel open to telling them about his connection as well.

"Miranda was a werelioness from Africa. The werecats are strongest and go back the farthest in that part of the world, as well as South America. She and Francisco had been married for about 180 years, if I remember correctly."

"Do weres normally live that long?"

"No, but Francisco was a vampire and magical bonds influence such things in mates. Francisco's magic prolonged her life. He was also," here Benedicta looked at John and waited for his nod before continuing, "John's spawn. In other words, John is the one who turned him into a vampire."

"So when you said he was like a son to you…"

"He had been. As a vampire, I raised him. The whole experience is like being born again. I hadn't seen him in almost a hundred years, though. He was in Africa when I decided to get out of this life and join the war. He probably came here to look for me, since he hadn't heard from me in so long."

"It took him a hundred years to come looking?"

"Time doesn't pass the same way for us as it does for humans. The older one is, the less time it feels like is passing. For Francisco and myself, a hundred years is more like a month or two."

Sherlock's mind reeled with that information and its implications. His musings were interrupted, however, by Lestrade asking an unexpected question.

"Hold on. If Francisco was your spawn, wouldn't you have felt something through your…bond or whatever when he was killed? It seemed like you didn't know until you saw the crime scene photo."

Everyone in the room stared at the older man and he shifted uncomfortably.

"What? I like monster movies."

John cracked a smile.

"Normally, you would be exactly right. However, each supernatural being has certain magical properties to it. Without boring you with a lot of details, a vampire mating with a were can have effects on the bond between that vampire and its creator. Between that and the after effects from the bullet wound, I didn't feel anything when Francisco died…It is not something I will forget easily."

It didn't take someone who knew John as well as Sherlock to hear the guilt in his voice. Lestrade bowed his head in John's direction.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't worry." His fists clenched at his side. "When we find the one who did this, I will make sure he pays dearly for what he has done. Our justice system is, as you may imagine, much different than yours."

Benedicta hummed, no doubt agreeing.

"You're going to have to find him first. I still say that Nic's your best bet. His annual ball is the night after tomorrow. You know you're always invited."

"Who is this Nic?"

John sighed and hung his head, obviously reluctant to even talk about it. Sherlock, however, recognized it as exasperated reluctance instead of worried about danger reluctance. It was all good.

"Nicholas Flamel is an alchemist. He is famous for creating the Sorcerer's Stone, which granted him eternal youth. He's rather a…handful."

Benedicta glared at him sternly.

"He's also a genius and is our best bet of finding out who is committing these murders and why. If it's for a ritual, which it probably is, then he's the guy to go to if we want to find out what for."

Sherlock raised his chin.

"He's throwing a ball the day after tomorrow, you said?"

A sharp nod from the woman.

"We'll be there. Is there a dress code?"

Benedicta's smile stretched across her entire face at his inquiry and Sherlock imagined for a moment that it was filled with sharp teeth. Then again, maybe it was.

"Oh, please. John has the worst fashion sense of anyone I've ever met. There's no way I'm letting him choose his own clothes. I'll take care of everything and call with the details tomorrow. For now, let's get you humans home and to bed. There have been quite a few shocks for you to handle."

Sherlock wanted to scoff and brush the suggestion aside, but he really was tired. Without wasting any time, Benedicta called for a car and not thirty minutes later John, Sherlock, and Lestrade were back at 221B. It had been decided that the DI would kip on their couch for the night. It wasn't long before everyone was asleep.

Except for, that was, a certain blonde vampire who stayed awake to watch over his friends. Only time would tell what the future held for their relationship.

A/N: Well, what did you think? Seriously! I'd love to hear from you all and a lack of reviews leaves me a bit discouraged…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Happy Halloween! In the interest of the holiday, I thought I'd post an extra chapter! I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter 4

Sherlock woke up the next morning to a certain amount of disorientation. This was what he hated so much about sleeping during cases. Brilliant though his mind was, he was not a quick riser. It would sometimes take him as much as twenty minutes to get back his full brain function. The lethargy was not something he enjoyed.

Dragging himself out of bed, Sherlock grimaced as his bare feet hit the floor. Why was it that wooden floors were always so cold? Maybe he should get a rug. Or install a heating system under the floorboards. It could be his next experiment. Surely John wouldn't mind.

Oh, right. John.

The events of the night before came filtering back to Sherlock. Truly, it was rather remarkable how the memory of finding out his flat mate and best friend was secretly a vampire could wake him up so quickly.

Throwing on his robe, Sherlock padded into the living room. Lestrade was still sprawled across the couch, one leg hanging off the side. A line of drool led from the corner of his mouth down his chin. Sherlock frowned at the thought of it getting on the couch, but continued past anyway. He was much more interested in finding John and getting more information on this new development. A clinking from the kitchen drew his attention.

Clutching the blue silk to his frame, it really was too cold in the morning, Sherlock crossed the living room in two strides and rounded the corner into the kitchen. What he saw sent him flying at his flat mate. John stood at the kitchen table, knife in one hand, slitting his wrist and letting the blood fall into a beaker from Sherlock's chemistry set.

Mere seconds later, the brunette was beside him, pressing a washcloth against the wound and applying pressure. He rounded on John in anger.

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?! Honestly, John, I would have thought you were better than this. A doctor should know not to make a cut that deep. Quickly, sit down. The blood loss will begin to affect your balance soon."

"Sherlock, Sherlock! Calm down!"

Icy blue-grey eyes snapped up at the stern tone in John's voice.

"It's okay. Watch."

The blonde's tanned hand wrapped gently around his own and lifted the towel. Sherlock's gaze followed the movement, locking in on where the blade had cut through John's skin. Already, only a roped, angry-looking scar was left. As the brunette watched with fascination, the mark healed over to a faint pale mark before fading completely.

Trembling slightly, Sherlock reached out with the hand that wasn't still in John's gentle hold. He ran his fingers over where the wound had been, the area still sticky with blood. Even to the touch, the skin was smooth and unmarked. He felt John shiver slightly under his touch and immediately withdrew his hand. The blonde released both him and the towel moments later.

"How?"

"Vampires heal at a much accelerated rate. Our bodies are no harder or sturdier than a normal human's, but we heal incredibly fast. Non-magical wounds will often only take a few moments to heal, depending on the severity. Often, we are able to 'conquer death' by our bodies healing before our brains cease to function. Once, during the Crusades, a knight impaled me through the chest with a spear." His, "Entirely on accident," was added in such an off-hand manner that Sherlock nearly got mad all over again, but John was still talking. "The blow pierced my heart, but the spear got pulled out within the next minute and my body was able to heal itself."

"That's no excuse."

"I'm sorry?"

"Accelerated healing is no excuse for harming yourself."

John blinked in surprise before bursting into laughter.

"Oh, God! I hadn't even thought about how this must've looked!" He tried to smother his chuckles. "I'm sorry for the scare, Sherlock, but I wasn't cutting to harm myself. I need magical blood for a potion."

He gestured to the beaker on the kitchen table. Sherlock took note of the fact that the level of blood already in the container meant that John had cut his wrist open at least several times before Sherlock had walked in on him. He didn't find the thought pleasing.

"What kind of spell?"

A smile burst onto John's face.

"I figured, especially since we'll all be going to Flamel's party tomorrow night, that it would be helpful for you and Greg to have the ability to see through Glamours. This potion will allow the two of you to bypass the Glamours that would normally hamper you. It could be useful for re-examining the bodies as well."

"That's possible?"

"I haven't made it in a long time, so I don't completely remember how…but it's coming back to me. I should be able to get it done in an hour or so…hopefully."

"Is it magic?"

"Alchemy, actually. You'd probably like it. Alchemy is all based on science, but with magical elements. Even without magical abilities, it's possible to be able to make the potions and such work. You just need the right ingredients. Alchemy requires magical components, but not magic itself."

John talked the consultant through what steps he had already taken and continued to explain each step as he proceeded through them. The blood had to be heated, and several items added to it, before the potion was complete. About midway through, Lestrade wandered into the kitchen and took up a place leaning against the counter. Sherlock preferred peering over John's shoulder.

John slipped in the last ingredient, nutmeg of all things, and set the beaker back on the burner to simmer for some time.

"When it changes color, it'll be ready. It should take about 30 minutes or so. I'd offer for us to get breakfast, but you probably won't want anything in your stomach when you drink this. It can turn things a little topsy-turvy."

There was an awkward silence for a few moments before Lestrade shifted uncomfortably and spoke.

"So are we going to talk about what happened last night?"

John sighed and moved to the stove, beginning the motions for making tea. He set out three mugs.

"I suppose it would be a good time to do so." His gaze found Sherlock's and the brunette's lips quirked at his next sentence. "Alright. You've got questions."

"How old are you?"

Despite his derision for Lestrade's obvious first question, Sherlock couldn't help but find himself interested, especially after John's answer.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? How do you not know?"

John frowned as he put the kettle back on the stove, flicking on the eye.

"I am one of a handful of vampires that have been around since near the beginning of history. Sherlock, you once described your mind as a processor that only had so much space, so you deleted things that weren't necessary. I have been around so long that I have seen a great many things, but that doesn't mean I remember them all. It's hard to keep count when you don't remember. By my best estimation I would say I'm about…3,000 years old."

"Three _thousand_?!"

Lestrade looked as if he'd been punched in the face and Sherlock had to admit a similar feeling. He knew his mouth was hanging open and forced it closed with a sharp 'clack' of teeth. John just looked sheepish.

"Were you turned?"

John had said he didn't remember much, but Sherlock still wanted to know.

"It's possible, but none of us who were alive back then really know. It's more likely that we evolved from early humans. Benedicta has done more research in that area, so she'd be able to tell you more."

"Is she as old are you?"

John shook his head at Lestrade's question.

"Benedicta is what we call Second Generation. She is the spawn of one of the original vampires, Udi. He is a…friend. Benedicta is only…1,500 years old? Maybe 2,000? You'd be surprised how the years blur together."

Lestrade muttered something under his breath that sounded surprisingly like, "I'm _sure_." John ignored it in favor of fixing the tea bags in the mugs he'd set out. The water would be boiling soon. Sherlock was busy calculating everything he knew about John against this information. One problem continually asserted itself.

"Harriet."

That made John's shoulders tense. A moment later, though, his shoulders slumped. He turned away from the other two to rest his hands against the edge of the counter.

"I was trying to escape the supernatural world, if only for a while. That's easier to do if you have an identity that isn't connected."

"John Watson doesn't exist."

"He did. Once. John Watson died at the age of five, Harriet was only a tad older. John is my real name, though it's been translated over the years, so it was easy to slip into the role."

"How did she not notice that someone had taken the identity of her dead brother? She gave you her phone when you returned from the war. Why would she do that for a stranger?" There was a brief pause as Sherlock's mind worked. "_Oh_…"

Lestrade just looked confused.

"What?"

"She doesn't know. She thinks you actually _are_ her brother. Was it a spell?"

"_No_."

The intensity in John's voice told Sherlock that is was the truth, and also that he actually cared about the woman. For a moment, the anger on John's face from the insinuation alarmed his flat mate, but the kettle whistled and it seemed to bring him back to himself. He jumped in surprise before turning to the stove and finishing the tea. Several moments passed in silence as John passed the teas around and sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

"Harriet it sick. She was born with a mental illness that went out of control when her brother died. She was convinced that he was still alive and that her parents and the doctors were keeping him away from her. Apparently, we share some vague resemblance and she immediately transferred the identity of her brother onto me. It was easy to assume the rest of his life after that. She's not an alcoholic. The tremors came from her anti-psychotic medication. Clara left her because she couldn't handle the stress. She'd tried so hard. I really did like her."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, not sure what to say. John's pain hung heavy in the air and it was just another example of how John was so compassionate. He wished he could say something to his flat mate to ease his discomfort, but he was the first to admit he wasn't very good with comfort. Luckily, Lestrade was a bit more proficient.

"She's lucky to have you."

John shrugged off the sentiment, but Sherlock could tell it made him feel a bit better. He decided it was time to change the subject.

"You mentioned that Benedicta was Second Generation. How many Generations are there?"

"I've heard of someone who was up to 57th Generation. The higher the Generation, the less powerful a vampire is. That being said, there isn't too much of a difference between one generation and the next. A 12th Generation vampire could be more powerful that a 10th Generation if the 12th Generation vampire has been alive longer."

"That sounds complicated."

"Yeah. It kind of is. You get used to it, though, Greg."

The DI shook his head.

"Just when I thought this world couldn't get any weirder. How many of our cold cases went unsolved because of a magical element?"

"I wouldn't be able to say without looking at the individual cases and even then it could be hard to tell. We've had a very long time to learn how to hide ourselves effectively in human society. I can tell you this, though, that most of those cases were taken care of. Each supernatural species takes care of their own. It's likely that those cases were looked into and solved by other super naturals."

"You have your own police force?"

"Not so officially. Mostly, if you're a murder victim, you hope you have friends who will look into it."

"Seems like a lot of vigilante justice if you ask me."

"It is. But we have strict laws about it. There are also certain members of the community that can be contacted if an individual does not wish to, or can't, conduct the investigation on their own. They're like sanctioned private investigators."

John opened his mouth to continue, but a glance at the table had him setting aside his tea. Sherlock followed his gaze to find that the beaker was now filled with a black concoction, instead of the dark red from earlier. John grabbed the beaker with a towel, mindful of its heat, along with two glasses. Switching off the burner, he poured the potion between the two glasses. It moved sluggishly and appeared to have small chunks in it.

"Now, I know this doesn't look very appetizing, and it really doesn't taste much better, but it'll help you see all the things you normally can't." His eyes twinkled merrily as he glanced at Sherlock and the brunette felt warmth spreading in his chest. It was a feeling he was starting to associate with John. "That, or I made it wrong and you'll have a few hours of wild hallucinations before puking your guts out."

John suddenly looked sheepish and hesitant about handing the glasses over. With a snort of derision Sherlock snatched one of the glasses from him, grimacing at the taste and texture of the substance as he knocked it back.

For a moment, nothing happened and Sherlock just stared at John and Lestrade as they watched him with trepidation. Then his entire world shifted. He lost his grip on the glass as his hand spasmed and it shattered against the kitchen floor. John probably could have caught it with the impressive speed he'd displayed the previous night, but he was too busy catching Sherlock.

One moment he was looking at his companions, the next Sherlock found himself staring up at John's concerned face while the ceiling in the background swam behind him. How had the ceiling moved to where the wall was supposed to be? He tried to look up at where the ceiling was supposed to be, but John's hand was on his face, cupping one cheek and keeping his face looking at the blonde.

John was saying something and Sherlock should have been paying attention, but all Sherlock could focus on was how good John's palm felt against his cheek. He pressed into the appendage, almost nuzzling it, and let out a sound of pleasure he'd only ever heard before from cats or other small animals.

His eyes fluttered open (when had he closed them?) to see the side of John's face. He was talking over his shoulder to someone. Moments later, Lestrade appeared over the doctor's shoulder with a damp washcloth and was pressing it to Sherlock's forehead. The damp coolness felt wonderful against his heated brow. When had it gotten so hot?

Sherlock's world shifted again as he was swept up into John's arms, experiencing momentary weightlessness. The blonde's sweater felt soft against Sherlock's cheek and he found himself not minding the indignity of the bridal carry in the slightest. His mind momentary provided the funny image of short, stocky John bundling tall, lanky Sherlock into his arms and he might have laughed. He wasn't sure.

He was suddenly engulfed in plush softness and Sherlock realized he'd been deposited on the couch. Now he _really_ hoped Lestrade hadn't drooled on it. What felt like hours later, but was likely only a few minutes, Sherlock began to return to himself. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, but couldn't seem to get rid of the shiny quality everything seemed to have.

He struggled to get up as he called for his flat mate.

"_JOHN!_"

The blonde appeared almost instantly beside him, steadying him. He must have used his superior speed. Gaze fixed on his flat mate, Sherlock found himself fascinated by the changes to John's appearance. Though he appeared to be the same man, there was an undercurrent of…something beneath his skin. It was shiny and wave-like. Sherlock brought a hand up to skim his fingers across John's cheekbone and the other stared at him in surprise.

Sherlock barely noticed, too fascinated in the examination. John's eyes fluttered shut and his muscles tightened in restraint as Sherlock's fingers trailed lower, down his neck. The brunette glanced up, saw John's expression, and instantly jerked his hand back. He hadn't meant to make the other man uncomfortable.

"What is that?"

"What is what?"

"That…under your skin…"

Lestrade had appeared behind John, coming in from the kitchen. He looked worried, but Sherlock's line of questioning only seemed to bring John relief. He was grinning widely now.

"You can see it! Excellent! That, Sherlock Holmes, is magic. What you are seeing ifsthe flow of magic through my body. Anything that has magical properties or has been around magic for an extended period of time will be marked like that."

Sherlock had to resist the urge to reach for John's face again, this time to trace the lines of that smile. His skin tingled where his fingers had trailed across John's skin. Steady on his feet now, he stepped away from John, removing himself from temptation. Instead, he gazed around the room.

Most of the things in 221B appeared largely un-magical. However, there were several items which drew Sherlock's attention; a pair of silver candle sticks a family had presented him after helping to find the missing mother, a set of playing cards he'd bought in a thrift store some years before, a sculpture of a mermaid that had come from one of John's girlfriends, and, most interesting of all, his skull. He flitted between the items, picking each one up and examining it carefully. He dimly registered Lestrade taking the potion in the background and having a similar, vertigo-inspired reaction.

While Sherlock and the DI adjust to their new-found sight, John roots around the flat. He eventually comes up with a gold-embossed invitation that leaked magic like a bad faucet and set it on his desk. Rubbing his hands together, he grinned at the others.

"Alright, so you've seen what's here is the flat. Want to go out and see some more? We could pop down to the café two blocks over, get breakfast, and you can see exactly how much of London you've been missing!"

Despite the repeated references to John trying to get away from the super natural community, Sherlock noticed how excited the blonde seemed to be able to share it with them. He grabbed his coat and the skull and followed the other two out the door. It wasn't until they actually arrived at the café that John seemed to notice the addition to their company.

"You brought the skull?"

Instead of replying, he simply held the object out to John. With a sigh, the man took it. John looked down at the skulls face. Sherlock knew John wouldn't need him to explain what he wanted.

"It has magical properties, but it isn't magical on its own. I looked into it shortly after I moved in. It will provide a measure of protection for the one bearing it."

"Like a shield?"

"Nothing quite so overt, Greg. It simply…persuades others that they don't really want to harm the one holding the skull. If someone is out to kill you, it won't work quite so well. However, if you have someone shooting at you, they are more likely to miss."

Sherlock took the skull back and looked at it thoughtfully. Could be useful.

"So, what other secrets is the unassuming John Watson hiding? You walk around with that pleasant smile and those awful sweaters," John blustered at Lestrade calling his sweaters awful, but the Di ignored him, "but you're not fooling me. First you shoot that cabbie, now you turn out to be an ancient vampire. What else have you got up your sleeve?"

Sherlock looked at the DI with surprise.

"You knew about the cabbie?"

"Of _course_ I knew! You really think I'm a bloody idiot, don't you?"

"Well, _obviously_. It appears you are not quite as bad as I thought, though."

"See, it's moments like these I wish John had let you take that damn pill."

Sherlock was about to deliver a scathing reply when John cut him off.

"Alright, children. Let's behave. We are in public, after all."

Sherlock huffed, but Lestrade just rolled his eyes. John looked exasperated and caught the attention of their waitress to order coffee and food. While the man was a veritable tea addict, Sherlock had noticed he was more likely to order coffee when out. Probably, this was because there was a higher likelihood of drinkable coffee than tea. Once their orders were placed, John settled in once again.

"To answer your question, Greg, there's really nothing all that spectacular about me. I've lived for a long time and I've picked things up here and there, but nothing more than a normal person would. I speak seven languages; English, Latin, Greek, French, German, Spanish, and Russian. Benedicta speaks over 40, though, so it's really not all that impressive. Stop looking at me like that."

Lestrade clamped his mouth shut and Sherlock struggled to keep his own surprise off his face.

"Any instruments?"

"I played piano, but I haven't touched one in probably a hundred years."

A small voice in the back of Sherlock's head noted how well a piano would complement the violin and Sherlock told it to shut up with a level of vehemence he normally only reserved for Mycroft.

"Where did you learn?"

Now John looked sheepish and Sherlock could tell he was about to reveal something impressive. Only John could find bragging so embarrassing.

"Beethoven…"

Lestrade's jaw had dropped again, Sherlock's joining it.

"_Beethoven_ taught you how to play the piano?!"

John's entire face was red with embarrassment and he ducked his head down. His relief was nearly palpable when the waitress returned to deliver their food.

"So what's with this eating thing?"

"I'm sorry?"

Lestrade gestured with his fork at John's omelet and toast.

"I've seen you eat before and you're eating now, but aren't vampires supposed to drink blood?"

"Ah. Right. Blood is required to keep our bodies functioning, since we are unable to produce our own. The blood we drink is imbued with the magic our bodies make and is then used when we use our abilities, such as the speed you saw last night. The less magic we use, the less we have to drink. Other than that, our bodies run on the same nutrients as a normal human's. We still need to eat."

"So how do you…you know…"

"Where do you get your victims from?"

As ever, Sherlock wasn't one for beating around the bush.

"I get blood from the clinic. A pack every week or two is generally enough to sustain me, since I haven't been using much magic lately. With last night and this morning, though, I'll likely have to grab a bag tonight or tomorrow morning." John glanced at the street and a smile broke out. "Alright, both of you check out the woman with the shopping cart."

Sure enough, when Sherlock and Lestrade turned, there was a woman pushing a shopping cart down the street. She was a bit older and obviously homeless, though not a member of Sherlock's network. What was odd about her, though, was that there was a second image over-laying the first. The creature behind the cart was hunched over, with skin the color of stone and looked just as hard. Tusks jutted out from under quivering jowls and cracked claws gripped the cart. Sherlock stared in fascination while Lestrade startled backwards.

"What the Hell is that?"

Thankfully, the DI retained enough brain function from his prolonged exposure to Anderson to keep his voice down.

"That," John leaned forward, "is a troll. I've seen her in the neighborhood before on my way to work. She usually passes the café around this time."

"Are they always so…"

"She's one of the prettier ones."

Lestrade grimaced. The three of them watched as the creature stomped down the street and around a corner. Sherlock turned to the blonde.

"Are there many supernatural creatures here in London? What's the ratio?"

"The ratio? Uh…maybe one to every ten humans or so? I'm afraid I don't quite know. We're not uncommon, though."

"So why is it that we see her troll image superimposed over her human image, but we only see your magic? Why is it that we don't see your form from last night?"

John shifted uncomfortably and took a big bite of his omelet to give him some time to answer.

"There are certain creatures, vampires and weres included, who do not have a 'true form' as you might call it. When we change forms, it is not the product of dropping a Glamour. We actually physically change from one from to another. What you saw last night was not my most…monstrous transformation. Sometimes when I have to go through a lot of healing, though, the transformation will start to peak through."

Sherlock wanted to ask more about his transformation, but John's expression told him not to. Once again, it was Lestrade who changed the subject and saved the day.

"So, how many vampires have you created?"

"Not as many as most. Francisco, of course, you already know about, but there are a few others. My line only has nine generations and there are under a thousand of us total. I've never been much one for creating spawn for the sake of it."

They'd eaten and were on their way back to the flat when the conversation turned back to John's abilities as a vampire.

"Vampires have a number of abilities. The healing is one, the speed another. It's not just that we can run incredibly fast, though. We can only really use our speed over short distances. While our bodies can move, our minds can't process the information we see fast enough for us to be able to keep up. Really, we can only go places we can already see. Then there's the ability to turn into fog, which comes in handy more often than you'd think. I can demonstrate when we get back to the flat. Finally, vampires have an ability we call Enticement. It makes us attractive to a target. It's a hunting ability."

"You can do this to anyone? What does it do?"

"Mostly, it just makes them perceive the vampire as very attractive and trustworthy. In a sense, it makes the victim falsely fall in love. At least that's how it works for my type of vampire. Each one differs a bit." Anticipating Sherlock's question, he continued. "There are five vampire types left. There were six, but then Dracula died. It's one for each of the original vampires, such as Udi and myself."

"Do it. I want to see this in action."

"Sherlock, I am not just going to Entice a random stranger just because you want me to."

"Then do it on me."

John looked at him like he'd lost his mind.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Well, if you won't do it to someone else then it only seems logical for you to do it to me. You'd only need to do it for a minute or so, just long enough for me to collect some data."

John sighed.

"Fine. But not to you. Pick someone else."

Lestrade grinned wolfishly and pointed to an American tourist walking on the other side of the street. He was a bit heavyset, but in the way that said he had a lot of muscle behind it and a sour expression. His jeans were worn, indicating a higher level of care for his work than his appearance. The wedding band on his finger indicated he'd been dragged on this vacation by his wife but a fight had left him up to his own devices while she shopped. His expression when he saw John approaching said he was deeply homophobic.

Sherlock and Lestrade watched as John greeted the man in a pleasant manner, only to be brushed aside with a rude comment. The blonde laughed it off and said something else, his words accompanied by a cloud of magic that moved from John's body to swirl around the other man. Instantly, Sherlock saw how his muscles relaxed and his frown turned up into an easy smile. John gestured for him to follow and the man trotted easily back across the street after John.

"Sherlock, Lestrade, this is Douglas."

The man raised a hand in greeting, but didn't turn his gaze away from John. In fact, his entire body was angled towards the blonde, showing a clear inclination towards his presence. Sherlock grinned widely.

"Fascinating…"

"Yes, yes. Are you done now?"

Sherlock nodded reluctantly, not liking John's clear displeasure with the situation. The blonde turned to the man and Sherlock's eyes watched as much of the cloud surrounding the man dissipated. Traces of it, though, still hung around him.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Douglas."

The man looked a bit confused, but smiled anyway.

"You, too, Doctor. I hope to see you again sometime."

With that, the man turned and left while the trio finished the trip to Baker Street. John and Lestrade chatted more about the different abilities of vampires while Sherlock just listened. It was amazing the amount of new information available to him now. Lestrade left them at the door to the flat, needing to change and show his face at work. They agreed to meet at the morgue the following morning to look at the bodies again.

Sherlock spent the majority of the rest of the day watching John putter around the flat, consumed by his own thoughts. The blonde got in contact with his friend Bill Murray and they arranged for Bill to meet them at the flat later in the week as he was still in Afghanistan and it would take him some time to get back. Later on in the evening, John got a call from Benedicta. She had the clothes taken care of and would bring them by tomorrow afternoon.

After that, the flat was consumed by an awkward silence. The two flat mates danced around each other, each a bit unsure of where they stood. It was just getting dark when Sherlock moved to the doorway of the kitchen, looking in at John making tea.

"Would you ever have told me? That you were a vampire?"

"I imagine you would have figured it out eventually. You're quite good at that."

"But would you ever have told me?"

The muscle in John's jaw told Sherlock the answer before the man did.

"…No."

They didn't speak again until Sherlock was preparing for bed. John knocked on the door to his room before entering.

"Listen, Sherlock…I meant what I said earlier, about not telling you, but it wasn't because I wanted to keep you out of this part of my life. It's just…bad things happen to humans who know about the supernatural world. I couldn't stand it if anything happened to you…"

The brunette felt a tension in himself ease.

"I am not so easy to get rid of, John."

That seemed to break the tension between them and John smiled. The two continued to talk for several hours and, eventually, Sherlock fell asleep to the blonde telling him stories of his past.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! I am working on a one-shot at the moment, too. It's called "Doorways and Darkness" and is a Johnniarty. Please keep an eye out and tell me what you think!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I really do appreciate it! Reviews are what keep my passion alive. You. Are. AMAZING!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Here we are. Chapter 5~! See you at the end!

Chapter 5

The next day, Sherlock woke up to find John in the kitchen again. Instead of slicing open his wrist, though, he was scrambling eggs. Ten minutes later found them sitting at the table, Sherlock with eggs and tea to John's eggs and blood. He'd made a run to the surgery early that morning to snag a bag. Sherlock watched with fascination as he cut a small hole in the top, stuck a straw in, and drank the blood like a juice box.

"Do you always drink it like that?"

"Nowadays, yeah. It's easy and quick. I haven't had blood directly from a human in over a hundred years."

Sherlock appreciated John's straightforward attitude. As ever, John's way of dispatching with useless information was one of the things he valued most about their relationship.

"Do you have an aversion to drinking directly from a victim? Or is it simply that bagged blood is more convenient?"

John shrugged and tucked into his eggs, giving Sherlock a pointed look that told him to eat.

"Drinking directly from a human gives them a higher chance of being turned into a vampire. In order for a human to turn, they have to drink a vampire's blood and that same vampire has to drink from them. However, it isn't unheard of that the blood from a different vampire than the one doing the biting can turn a human. Drinking indirectly eliminates that risk."

They spoke a bit more as they ate, and were soon off to the morgue after a brief conversation in which John explained that, "No, Sherlock, you may _not_ harvest tissue sample from me to run experiments on it." It was ridiculous, really, because he would just get the samples another way and it was all in the name of science. Lestrade met them on the curb.

"I've already had Molly pull the bodies out and vacate the morgue. I figured that this was an examination better done in private." He nodded in Sherlock's direction as he led them through the halls, a look of wonder on his face. "Just wait until you see them. You're going to love this."

They entered the morgue to find all four bodies set out on slabs. Sherlock was fascinated how their features had changed. Examining the bodies in order, he started with Darren Shaw.

His skin had taken on the color and texture of wood. A closer inspection revealed it to be that of the Douglas Fir, a conclusion supported by the green, pine straw-like hair. Small red berries peeked out from under the fringe. Lifting up each eyelid, Sherlock shined a light into each red-tinted eye. Sherlock also noted that his limbs were disproportionately long. His fingers alone were easily six inches.

"Do all Fae look so…natural?"

He threw the question over his shoulder at John.

"Generally, yeah. Not all of them look like trees, though. The different Courts correspond with the variety of plants you'll see as part of their members. Darren was from the Winter Court, thus the pine tree."

"Douglas Fir."

"I'm sorry."

"His features are derived from the Douglas Fir."

John rolled his eyes with a muttered, "Of course," but Sherlock ignored him in favor of moving on to the next victim, Liz Tolbert. The consultant had to admit that, of all the victims, she was the most impressive so far.

She remained the same height, 5'7", but that was just about the only thing that remained the same. Feathers decorated her thin frame and her arms were more like wings with clawed hands at the end. Her lower legs and feet were like those of a bird. Her teeth were sharpened and angled slightly forward, hinting at a beak.

Still, this new appearance did not diminish his original findings. The feathers were dirty, patchy in areas, and her claws were chipped. A closer inspection of the claws on her feet revealed tufts of hair and feather stuck in the cracks. She'd been doing her own hunting, then.

"What are the hunting patterns of Harpies?"

John's eyebrows shot up.

"They generally don't anymore, at least not for survival. There are some reservations that cater to Harpies, but they're more for sport than anything else. Harpies are a restless species, especially Valkyries like her. That's a particular Clan. Harpies are organized into Clan and then into flocks. There are, of course, a few that live on their own, though. Mostly, it's those whose mate has died."

"Ah. Like geese."

Lestrade looked lost.

"Geese."

Sherlock rolled his eyes while John answered, instead moving onto Francisco Torres.

"They mate for life."

Francisco's appearance was pretty similar to John's the other night. His skin was tinted with grey, but not the usual grey of death. Instead, it was a darker color, much like the skin of a bat. His fangs hung over his lip and his eyes were black as night. Movement caught Sherlock's eye and his gaze was drawn to where John was tracing his fingers along Francisco's clawed hands. His eyes were full of pain.

"What do you see?"

John's eyes flickered to his, surprised, but he was far too used to being Sherlock's flat mate to question it for long.

"He's partially transformed. The killer couldn't have taken him completely by surprise. That means he knew what was coming. Miranda isn't transformed. That tells me that whoever the killer is, he didn't pose enough of a threat for them to take him seriously, just get pissed off. Francisco is normally pretty easy going, but he's not someone you want to deal with angry."

"So the killer is likely not physically imposing, very normal-looking or small."

"More likely the former. Those two weren't likely to underestimate someone based on size."

Sherlock let his eyes rake over John's body, which didn't go unnoticed and the blonde glared at him.

"No, I suppose not." He moved back to the former victims. "I notice that Ms. Tolbert's frame is very light. I expect this is a characteristic of all Harpies?"

"They have hollow bones and they are much thinner than mine or yours. It's what keeps their weight down enough that they can fly. The downside is that it is very easy to break them. The talons, though, are wicked sharp."

"Personal experience?"

"I had an encounter back in the 1840's with a particularly vicious Harpy male." He rubbed a hand unconsciously across his stomach. "He was young and out on his first Blood Run, a tradition for the Harpies which pretty much means free hunting. They don't practice it anymore. This particular bird thought that meant he could bag himself a vampire to bring back and brag. It took me three days to sort out my intestines. He wasn't so lucky."

Sherlock winced inwardly and turned away from the woman. He'd learned pretty quickly that most of John's memories erred a bit on the bloody side. It seemed that every topic had John bringing forth an anecdote of some time he'd almost died. It was enough to make the brunette want to wrap him in cotton and lock him in a room.

"And Darren Clark? Chemically speaking, exactly how much does his skin differ from the actual bark of the Douglas Fir? I notice that it is harder than normal flesh."

"Uh…I don't know. I'd suggest you save your questions like that for Flamel. He's a scientist, in his own way. Honestly, I think the two of you will get along quite well. You are very similar…God, help us."

Sherlock spared a moment to give John a disproving glare before returning to the corpse. Lestrade stood off to the side rather awkwardly.

"Have you got anything new?"

"Yes. Looks promising."

He used a scalpel to remove a few pieces of bark-flesh from the Fae. However well John thought he and Flamel would get along, Sherlock preferred to do his own research. Samples were also collected from the other three victims. Both the Harpy and Francisco had their fingernails scraped. They both were more likely to have attacked their killer. Sherlock also swabbed Francisco's mouth, in case there had been biting involved. Miranda lost a piece of her fingernails for DNA study.

It wasn't long before Lestrade was headed back to NSY while John and Sherlock headed up into the labs. The brunette had just settled in beside his usual microscope to study Darren Clark's skin while a machine ran the particle samples from the Harpy's fingernails when Mike Stamford popped through the door. Sherlock barely glanced at him before jerking his head up again in a double take.

The man was definitely Stamford, his bone structure and protruding belly left no question of that. However, his skin was a dark grey and tentacles hung down from his chin, wiggling and curling lazily. His eyes were larger than normal and a glassy green color, more like bulbs than actual eyes. He must have noticed Sherlock's alarmed stare because he came up short and gave him an odd look, though it was a bit hard to tell past his new features.

"Everything alright there, Sherlock?"

"What are you?"

The question had been asked in Sherlock's usual, blunt way. Still, Stamford reeled back as though he'd taken a physical blow. It was understandable, the consultant supposed, seeing as how the brunette hadn't taken the time to explain that he now knew about the supernatural world.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt something almost like a gentle pressure inside his skull. It felt alien and intrusive and he found himself suddenly on his feet, stumbling backwards as if to put physical distance between himself and the intrusion. John was by his side in a second, using that incredible speed of his. His fangs were out and barred at Stamford, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"_Mike._"

Just like that, the pressure was gone and Sherlock sagged towards John, finding comfort in his sturdy frame. One hand was held to his head in an attempt to orient himself. What _was_ that? Meanwhile, Mike Stamford was looking abashed.

"Sorry, John. I just panicked and needed to find out what he knew. Old habits die hard and all that. I should've known you'd just told him. It's not like I didn't know this day would come."

Now John looked confused.

"What?"

"Ever since I introduced the two of you, I knew Sherlock was going to find out about our world eventually. I mean, more likely that you'd tell him, but it wasn't going to stay a secret. I guess I was just expecting a little more warning is all. Has he asked if you sparkle, yet?"

"You knew?"

"Well, of course. Anyone who has ever met you would be able to tell that Sherlock would get under your skin. You were practically made for each other."

The suggestive phrasing didn't escape the younger Holmes brother and, judging by the blush working its way across his face, it didn't escape John's either.

"He found out last night, outside of Bloodlust. Jerome attacked us, transformed."

Mike didn't look surprised, more thoughtful.

"He never was a bright one. Didn't you kill his father?"

"Unfortunately. I tried to avoid it, but stubborn idiocy apparently runs in the family."

"Yes, yes. Now back to the question at hand. What are you?"

Sherlock had no qualms about butting into the conversation. It wasn't as if John would hold it against him and he wanted to know. All this pointless talk of the club would take forever and he was already bored.

"Daeijine Illithid, more commonly known as a Mind Flayer. We are psychic beings. Most of my kin live underground or in other dimensions and, trust me they aren't the type you want to run into. We got the nickname Mind Flayer for a reason. My race feeds off of powerful thoughts and ideas and it isn't unlikely for the source to be killed. I am one of the only Illithids who does not prescribe to the superiority complex shared by the rest of my race."

It was a testament to how long Mike had known Sherlock that he readily gave so much information. Sherlock had no problems reading the rest of the information he needed from between the lines. Clearly, the need for ideas and thoughts was what had driven Stamford to get a job teaching. His psychic ability was probably what Sherlock had felt prodding at his skull just earlier. Moreover, happy, fat Mike Stamford had the potential of being quite dangerous.

"How do your abilities work? Additionally, do explain the process by which you consume thoughts and ideas."

It took some time, but Sherlock was eventually satisfied with the information he had gleaned from the encounter. Mike and John had not been buddies from Uni, but from the late 1800's. Illithids had a rather extended life span, though they weren't immortal. All of his questions exhausted, Sherlock finally turned back to his work. It wasn't until almost three in the afternoon that he felt he'd accomplished enough to return to Baker Street.

"Lestrade will be arriving there before long, anyway. We have information to gather tonight, John, and I don't rightly feel like wasting the opportunity."

Lestrade arrived promptly at 4:30 and Benedicta followed shortly after at 5. She carted several garment bags with her and wasted no time in shoving them at the three men. Her greeting had been short and indicated that she clearly was more interested in sticking to business than in idle chit-chat.

"Let's get a move on. We're wasting daylight."

Sherlock had retreated to his room to change and was pleasantly surprised upon unzipping the garment bag. He had to admit some level of trepidation when Benedicta had insisted upon taking charge of their clothing selections. It could have easily ended up a complete disaster.

For Sherlock, the end result was a black suit, only slightly fancier than the ones he usually wore, on top of starched white shirt. What set the outfit apart was the waist-length, black, fur cape that hung from his shoulders. There was also an odd sort of rod sticking up from his right shoulder. A quick glance in the mirror revealed the ensemble to be absolutely fetching and Sherlock soon found himself back in the living room.

Somehow, Sherlock suspected magic, Benedicta had changed from her powerful skirt suit into a striking gown while Sherlock had been out of the room. The entire thing was blood red, with a large skirt made entirely of red and black feathers. The bodice seemed to have large swaths of fabric missing, displaying Benedicta's small frame and flawless skin. She smiled upon seeing him.

"Well, don't you look just delicious? Now for the finishing touch…" She swiped his skull off of the mantle and secured it onto the rod at his shoulder. "Perfect. John wanted you to have the added protection of your friend there."

"Ugh! How are you even supposed to attach this infernal thing?"

Lestrade's complaints announced his arrival to the room. The man was dressed in a suit as well, though his had no cape. Instead, the left shoulder and right hip slipped from cloth to leather seamlessly, molding into armor pieces. As he turned to the side, Sherlock spotted a fluffy black tail hanging from the back of his left shoulder. The DI was attempting to attach a buckle at his wrist, which explained the source of his complaints. Benedicta moved forward to help him.

"Doing buckles one-handed can be difficult at first, but you really should get used to it. High fashion does not compromise for convenience."

Lestrade muttered something under his breath that Sherlock didn't quite catch, but he could deduce it was something along the lines of just where high fashion belonged. Benedicta, who had moved on to mussing with the DI's hair, didn't have the same problem hearing it.

"Says quite a bit about you, doesn't it, then?" She popped him gently on the shoulder before going back to his hair. Her entire body came up short, though, as she glanced up the stairs. "OH…"

Sherlock understood immediately her reaction as his flat mate descended onto the main level. The phrase "cleans up nice" didn't even begin to describe the man before him. Sherlock had always known the man was hiding a well-toned body under his bulky sweaters, but he hadn't realized exactly how much of a difference a wardrobe change would make. Looking at the man now, he made a mental resolution to burn every last one of those offending pieces of cloth.

Unlike Lestrade's and Sherlock's own, John's suit was pure white and cut long, the jacket ending at mid-thigh. It was cut close to this figure and buttoned up the right side like a surgeon's jacket. An intricately designed, red, star-shaped cross was emblazoned over his heart, balancing the entire look. It gave John a look of power and strength that was absent in his usual clothes. In this, no one would dare question his authority.

Sherlock liked it…A _lot_.

As his eyes ran over his flat mate's form, his mind provided him with a number of scenarios that would put the outfit to _very_ good use. Before he could get too involved with such carnal nonsense, though, Benedicta spoke and the topic of conversation distracted him.

"You look dazzling, John. You see? This is why I couldn't let you pick your own clothes. You're a man of distinction. Dress like it. Speaking of which, excellent timing with Jerome the other day. It was so fortunate he was in his wolf form when you had your little disagreement."

It took less than a moment for all of the pieces to slot into place.

"So the fur from our suits came for the werewolf, then?"

Lestrade startled backwards in surprise and he looked down at himself as though seriously considering ripping the whole thing off. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course," Benedicta answered, "The two of you are human, painfully so. Humans who know about the supernatural world are very uncommon. Those who actually become involved are practically unheard of. Jerome's pelt will surround the two of you with the smell of the supernatural so as not to cause any undo alarm."

"Won't someone recognize his scent, though?" Lestrade voiced his concerns.

Benedicta just waved him off.

"No one at this gathering you had the misfortune of Jerome's acquaintance will mind much that he is gone. He was more of a leech than a wolf and had no shortage of enemies."

Here John interjected.

"You have to understand, death is nothing new in our world. A lot of disagreements are settled with one side ending up dead. The upside is that most creatures have become pretty good about not holding grudges."

"Yes, well, we can talk more on the way. I have a car waiting outside and Flamel's estate isn't exactly close. Let's move, everyone."

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed it! Thank you to everyone who reviewed on the last chapter! I look forward to seeing what you think of this one!

Also, to address a question in one of my reviews, I do plan on continuing and updating this story. Though I am not sure where the concern arose from, I can assure everyone there is no need for it. I hope to update a chapter every Monday.

Next time: Party at Flamel's house! Sherlock gets jealous and John meets old friends.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Ah! So here we are for the Ball! I know that many of you have been looking forward to this and I do so hope that I have come through for you! Please, please, enjoy!

Chapter 6

To say that Flamel's estate was large would be a gross understatement. An hour outside of London, it took the group nearly ten minutes to get from the front gates to his doorstep. The drive had by no means been boring, though. The entire way was lined by a fantastically landscaped garden.

Upon entering the gates, they had been greeted by large butterfly sculptures, three times the size of a man and made entirely out of plants. If that weren't enough, they fluttered through the sky and some perched on fantastical marble sculptures scattered about the area. The group also encountered giant, plant unicorns, dogs, and snakes. Sherlock had to admit he was impressed. Clearly, this Nicholas Flamel was a very powerful individual.

The house they pulled up in front of was expansive and made of white stucco, topped with black tile and glass. A circular drive corralled an intricate water fountain in which two dolphin sculptures splashed playfully. Apparently no one had bothered to tell them they'd been made of solid gold. There appeared to be several towers around the perimeter and the edges of the windows and doors were surrounded by fantastical carvings.

The owner of this house was clearly obsessed with image. If the number of sculptures was anything to go by, he also had an issue with size. Perhaps stemming from a past relationship that ended poorly? It seemed likely. It would have ended a while ago, when Flamel was just beginning to acquire his wealth, most probably. The excess display was a way to reassure himself that sacrificing the relationship had been worth it. Petty sentiment. He filed the information away for later use.

A man dressed like a butler sprang forward to open the car's doors upon their arrival in front of the manner. Each of the doors to Benedicta's limo sprang open as the man opened the one at the back. Piling out, John gave the man a nod of acknowledgement.

"Michelangelo, it's good to see you again."

"Likewise, Sir. The Master will be quite pleased with your presence as well."

"Is he expecting us?"

"Not that I have heard, though he always strives to keep the party arrangements up to par in case you drop by."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the exchange. Clearly, John and Flamel shared a much closer connection than was previously implied. Benedicta ushered them up the stairs, going over the plan as they went.

"Alright, so I'll go in first while you three hang back. It shouldn't be hard for me to locate Flamel at which point I will send you," she inclined her head towards John, "a text. I'll make sure he meets you at the bottom of the stairs." She grinned knowingly. "Though, to be fair, it would probably be harder to keep him away."

Another servant met them at the doors of the manor and became their guide to the main ball room. It did not escape Sherlock's notice that the ceiling of the coat room had vaulted ceilings. Was there anything this man did that _wasn't_ ostentatious? It seemed that every bit of this palace screamed abundance. The consulting detective could only imagine the size of Flamel's ego.

As agreed, Benedicta went ahead once they reached the entrance of the ball room while the other three hung back. Through the curtain which kept them hidden from the party itself, they heard another servant begin to announce Benedicta's presence.

"Announcing Ben-!"

"Don't. You. _Dare_."

Sherlock felt a shudder run down his spine at the threat in the brunette woman's voice. John leaned close to speak quietly to them and Sherlock had to hold himself back from leaning towards the comforting warmth.

"The last time Benedicta came to one of Nic's parties, he announced her as 'Benny-bunny,' his personal nickname for her. Needless to say, she wasn't very happy about it."

Sherlock imagined she probably wouldn't be.

Barely a minute after her departure, John's mobile buzzed. Something had to be said for the woman's efficiency.

Whatever Sherlock had thought about the rest of the mansion, it was nothing compared to the opulence of the ball room as they pushed past the curtain. A tall staircase led down from their platform onto the main floor, which was made entirely out of marble with gold accents. A pool filled the far-left hand corner of the room and a glass wall right behind it revealed a large tank filled with amazing aquatic creatures, including what looked like a cross between a cat and a finned dragon that had to be at least 100 meters in length.

Following his gaze, John explained.

"It's a Seacat. They're a majestic race that has become almost extinct. The pool allows for those of Nic's guests who cannot be separated from the water to enjoy the festivities."

There was no more time to chat before the servant at the top of the platform began to speak at a volume far higher than he should have been capable. A quick glance at the blonde revealed his fangs were extended and his eyes were black once more, likely a show of power and status for the other guests. It stood to reason that, within this world, John had an image to uphold.

"Announcing Lord Doctor John von Hamish, Duke-grandee of Alba of Spain, Marquis of Aguilar de Campoo, Count of Lemos, Infante de Espana, Knight of the Round Table, Freiherrlich Uradel, Alter Adel, The Forgotten's Champion, Knight of the Cross, Founder of the Crusified, The Blood Healer, Boyar, The Much Honored Champion of the Court of Lord Lyon King of Arms, Legion's Heir, Sysselmann to the High King of Norway, Huskarl of the Royal Guard, Earl of Undershaw, First Hertug to King Hakon Magnusson, Founder of Saint Bart's Medical Hospital, Courtship of Brahesminde, Captain of Belmonte duPrie, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Grandmaster of Haidong Kumdo and Bartistu, Uniter of Packs, Keeper of the Cardinal Sins," Sherlock slid a surprised look at the blonde who was looking decidedly embarrassed as the announcer continued. A glance at Lestrade revealed a similarly shocked reaction. "Head Councilman of The Order of The Ud de I, Co-Author of the Tome of Laws, First Enforcer, Teacher of Kells, Sire of The Holy Blood, once-Gatekeeper to the Hells, and Champion of All…and companions."

As the last title rang out, John began down the stairs. It didn't take a genius to see he was uncomfortable with all the stares he was getting from the other party guests. Of the 500 or so guests present, at least half were looking at him as if he were God himself. Sherlock stayed right on his heel, glaring out in challenge as though that itself would tell the staring guests to back off. Lestrade wasn't far behind.

"For the record, Flamel made half of those titles up."

"Your flush says that's a lie. I'm surprised, though, I thought you had to be the son of a prince to warrant Infante de Espana."

That lovely flush only darkened. Funny, how Sherlock loved the color when he put it there but would readily commit murder upon anyone else who dared the same.

"I did a small favor for the King of Spain back in the 1300's. It was really no big deal but he decided to adopt me into the family as a thank you. Entirely too much."

Sherlock couldn't fight the smile that tugged at his lips as he gazed across the room.

"Only you, John…What is that?"

John followed his gaze past where a large Minotaur dressed for war and a small raccoon were carrying on a conversation to see a small group of people who looked more like bipedal bees. The seemingly female one was flanked by six males. With four legs and black and yellow striped torsos, they would have looked out of place except for the other creatures which filled the room.

"Ah, that is Queen Atta and her Royal Guard. They are Abeils, a race that is said to be an ancient ancestor of the bee that most humans are familiar with. They are very industrious, but their social customs just give me a head ache."

"That," he said, tipping his head towards the stage where a woman in a red, sequined dress was singing with an orchestra. The dress covered her face completely, but cut off into long strands just below her hips to show off her legs. Even from this distance, with her face covered, Sherlock could tell she was beautiful, "is Lady Helena, the finest songstress in the land. She's also a Banshee, so watch what you say or that voice could turn deadly. We met through the wizard Merlin."

"Back when you were a knight of the Round Table?"

Lestrade's raised eyebrows showed that he was ribbing the blonde a bit and John flushed again.

"Yes, I was known as Galahad then."

Ignoring the surprised looks, John moved on to point out some of the water creatures. There were Mermaids, Sprites, Sirens and Undines, along with any number of other creatures. Moving on from them, John pointed out a group of five African women who roamed the room in a pack.

"Those are the representatives of the five most powerful Lioness Prides in Africa. Prides exist elsewhere in the world, but none are so powerful as the African Prides."

Sherlock's gaze quickly picked out a number of other Weres dotting the room, all in various stages of the change and all various animals.

There wasn't much time for further conversation as the trio reached the bottom of the stairs. As soon as John's foot hit the marble floor, a blonde man dressed in an extremely well-made suit materialized out of the crowd, Benedicta just behind him. A colorful bird about the size of a Toucan sat on his shoulder, seemingly at home around the curly, blonde bush that reached just past the man's ears. It's long tail was draped around the stranger's shoulders like a feather boa. He was shorter that Sherlock, but still taller than John, with lean muscles and a tan that suggested he enjoyed the outdoors. His suit was black satin, but flames flickered across the fabric. It wasn't just a design, the flames actually moved and for a moment Sherlock was mesmerized. The man took a hesitant step forward, breaking the spell, and made a motion as if to reach out for John before aborting it.

"John? Did you really come?"

"It would appear so, Nic. You look good."

A bright smile broke out on the man's face and he took the final step towards them to wrap John in a warm embrace. It was in that moment that all the pieces fit together in Sherlock's head and he decided that he definitely did _not_ like Nicholas Flamel.

He also didn't like how gentle John's eyes were as he looked at the other man, or how their hug lasted just a second too long. What he did like was that John was the one to pull away first.

"Sherlock, Greg, this is Nicholas Flamel, The Alchemist. Nic, this is my flat mate Sherlock Holmes and my good friend Gregory Lestrade."

Sherlock stuck a hand out to the new arrival.

"Such a pleasure to meet John's ex."

Despite the smile Sherlock let slip onto his face, both he and Flamel could feel the ice behind it. The blonde man gripped his hand tightly, squeezing with surprising force until Sherlock could feel the bones of his knuckles grind together. He never let the smile falter.

It did falter, however, when the man held up his left hand to show off a tasteful yet obviously expensive diamond.

"Technically, we're still married."

John's look of shock did little to ease the sickness and bile that rose up in Sherlock's throat. It felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His entire world froze for a moment before speeding up again. It felt like he was watching the entire scene from outside of his own body.

"Are you serious? Nic, that was what, 300 years ago? Wiccan marriages weren't even recognized, much less between two men."

"Ah, ah! But they are now! Besides, you'd already gotten me this gorgeous ring…"

"Wait a second, you're gay? Aren't you always the one protesting about how you and Sherlock _aren't_ a couple?"

John rolled his eyes at the Detective Inspector and Sherlock felt a tightening in his chest that he was really starting to wonder if he should see a doctor about. Not John, though. Anyone but John.

"That's because we're _not_. Besides," here he shifted uncomfortably, "I said I wasn't gay…I didn't say anything about being bisexual. Having been alive as long as I have, sexuality really sort of becomes a nonissue."

"But you never said anything about it."

The look Sherlock gave John was accusatory, and if there was the tiniest hint of betrayal therein the brunette would never admit it.

"No, I didn't. It is generally easier if I just don't mention it, especially when I was in the army. But this is a topic for another time. Nic, do you have somewhere that we could talk? In private?"

Flamel's grin turned lecherous and the look he ran over John's form sent anger burning though the consulting detective where icy sickness had been just moments before. Lestrade must have noticed because he sidled over and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. If it was supposed to calm him, it didn't work.

"Oh, John, you naughty boy. I suppose I could come up with something…"

"It's not a social event, Nic. We need your help with something serious."

The sudden steel in John's voice did wonders to lift Sherlock's spirit and it took all the willpower he possessed to keep from sticking his tongue out childishly at the flamboyant blonde. It was a comfort to know that John had no lingering romantic feeling for the man, despite their retained marital attachment. That snag was an easy enough fix with some simple paperwork. It could even be worth a call to Mycroft.

Flamel huffed and looked a bit put out.

"Of course. You _finally_ come to one of my balls and it's on business. I should have known…Follow me."

Making their way through the crowd and ignoring the stares directed at John and Flamel both, they quickly managed to get to one of the many doors which lined the room. Gilded in gold like the majority of the room, Flamel held them open for the group.

The hallway they found themselves in had walls and ceiling made entirely out of vines and flowers. The floor was a stone pathway. The plants were of a variety Sherlock was unfamiliar with and he made a mental note to try and find out more information on them later, surreptitiously snapping some pictures of them with his phone.

Flamel stepped to the head of the group and began leading them down the hall, which curved gently to the right. Now that they were out of the crowd, John dropped his vampiric features, returning instead to the average, normal-looking man Sherlock was so used to seeing. It was an almost comforting sight in the presence of so many new things, yet another thing to add to the list of feeling Sherlock would never admit to having.

"The door took us out into my garden, the wonders of portals. I swear I don't know how I would get by without them. This will take us where we want to go. So tell me, John, what _have_ you been up to? It's not so often I see you and Benny-bunny teamed up together."

Ignoring Benedicta's death glare with practiced ease, John gave Flamel a brief overview of his time in the army and what he had been doing with Sherlock since he'd been invalided home. Sherlock's chest grew light upon witnessing the warmth and excitement John exuded while talking about their adventures together. It grew lighter still when Benedicta leaned over to speak quietly into his ear.

"If you want to kill Flamel, I know a number of excellent places to hide the body. No one would ever have to know…"

"While I appreciate the offer, you should know that I only ever do my own dirty work. Besides," he turned to her with a dangerous smile, "if I were to kill someone, no one _would_ ever know."

She returned the smile, an impressed look in her eye. They remained side by side for the rest of the short journey into the garden, taking turns glaring a hole in Flamel's back. The tunnel let out next to a fountain with giant koi. As Sherlock watched, the four-foot fishes changed colors and darted about under the surface. Flamel withdrew a small pouch from his trouser pocket.

"I always keep some of this around, it often comes in handy when you least expect it. It is Secret Ash." He dipped his finger in the bag and brought it out covered in soot. Without further comment, he drew a line of the ash on each of their foreheads, including his own. It wasn't until he was done that he spoke again. "This will ensure that no one can overhear us. Only those with the ashes upon their brow are privy to the conversation."

The look John gave him would have wilted flowers.

"And why couldn't we just do this in the ballroom, then?"

"Are you kidding me? That would have made it completely obvious what we were doing! Besides, it's too crowded in there. Talk of evil should be done around good, beautiful things. Beautiful though many of my guests are, being good is rather subjective."

Acquiescing to this point, they began to wander the garden. As John went over the details of the case they roamed from section to section, each corner revealing something new and magnificent. When Flamel was caught up to speed, he nodded gravely.

"I am so sorry to hear about Francisco and Miranda. They were truly a wonderful pair. I can see why you got involved. I don't have too much information for you, unfortunately, but I may still be able to provide some assistance. There have been rumors going around lately about a man trying to recreate the Sorcerer's Stone, impossible though that would be. The amount of blood taken from the victims, along with the particular victims he chose would support that. The variance in magical types is certainly a well-known requirement. However, Miranda and Francisco were the only ones with enough power to provide even a shot at recreating the Stone. He'll likely realize that soon, if he hasn't already."

"So he's likely to kill again soon?"

"If he keeps to his schedule, he won't kill again until the end of this week. That being said, finding out that the blood he has harvested isn't powerful enough could launch him into a more aggressive stance. Remember when we were working on the Stone, John?"

"Of course. You were obsessed with it."

Instead of bitterness, the statement was said with a kind of fondness that made Sherlock want to take Benedicta up on her offer. A glance in the woman's direction said she knew it, too.

"It was nearly impossible to harvest enough blood of a high enough power. The only reason I was able to was because of your influence. Mind you, I was taking the blood from willing donors and not killing anyone."

It was Lestrade who brought the group back to business.

"So how do we find this guy? You said there were rumors, can we try to track him through those?"

"It's unlikely. One thing you'll learn in this world is that there are only two types of Supes, those who gossip like old hens and none of the information is right and those who won't say a word about anything. I keep an eye out for anyone trying to work with high-grade alchemy because it can be so dangerous, but most of the time I'm working with the bare minimum of information. Most of the Supernatural community brushes alchemy off as silly because it does not require magic, but a skilled practitioner can do mind-blowing things. If someone is seeking out such high level blood, though, there may be a trail. It'd be worth looking into."

"Have there been any Enforcers already called in to investigate the case?" John turned to Lestrade and Sherlock briefly, and the brunette remembered it as being one of the titles attached to John's name. "Those are the sanctioned private investigators I spoke to you about."

"Not for the Harpy woman. You know what they're like. 'Die with honor and pride or be disgraced for all eternity.' Being found dead in an alley with no signs of fighting back? I almost feel sorry for her. The Fae and the Werewolves have both gotten an Enforcer involved though. The Queen of the Winter Court apparently took quite the offence to someone killing one of her minions. She contacted Gabriel, you remember him?"

"Gabriel?!" Surprise and delight shone from John's face. "I haven't seen him for ages! How has he been?"

"The Council of Weres has settled down considerably after your display, though I think some of them are still a bit bitter over the fact that he brought in an outsider. He'd been having some trouble with them ever since that incident in the 1890's. The one where he accidentally poisoned the son of Scotland's leading were pack?" John grimaced. "The Were populace loves him, though, so there wasn't much of a threat. Besides, the only time the Scots aren't fighting everyone else is when they're too busy fighting themselves. With all that Council business sorted out, he's been able to return to free lancing as an Enforcer in recent years, with Carl of course. I heard he turned down the offer when the Winter Queen originally approached him about it, but changed his mind once Miranda and Francisco's involvement became known. The Weres backed her offer with their own, so he's basically being paid double. I'm pretty sure, though, that it's their connection to you that had him taking the job."

The significant look he gave John said that it was probably a result of whatever had happened so long ago. Sherlock's brow furrowed at the mixed signals. John's grimace insinuated a negative event, so why would this Enforcer be interested in helping him? He shifted closer to his friend in an attempt to provide some level of support and his lips quirked upward as John subconsciously moved to adapt to their shared space.

Take that, Alchemist.

Flamel was seemingly not to outdone, though. He shot a glare at Sherlock before grinning at the doctor once more.

"I invited them to the ball, of course. I could easily bring them here. No doubt an Enforcer of Gabriel's level will have found something useful."

"Thank you."

Despite his distaste for the man, Sherlock watched attentively as the alchemist went through the motions of drawing a circle on the stone walkway with chalk. The circle was filled with designs and runes that the brunette didn't recognize, but looked almost Sanskrit in origin, all flowing lines and sharp curves. He then arranged a number of items at different points around the circle, five in total. It seemed Flamel was able to store far more in his pockets than appearances gave. Likely, it was another form of alchemy.

As he worked, Flamel explained what he was doing. Just as Sherlock could not resist learning, it seemed Flamel could not resist sharing his knowledge. The similarity was not lost on the detective, nor did it please him.

"The chalk I use comes from a blend of white ash from the bones of a Wiccan, the blood of a descendent of Udi, willingly given, and the balm secreted from a Columbian Carash. It creates a bond between spaces and allows for a person in one space to cross to the other. The runes are an ancient language now forgotten to all but a few. I can't even translate what it says fully, but it is calling upon the powers to open a door between the realms. This one here," he pointed to a line of script near the center of the circle, "indicates what it is I am calling or, in this case, who. The yarrow root is an offering to the powers and symbolizes a return for the favor. The elephant's tusk gives them protection while the crow's beak allows them a guide to ensure they follow the path. Finally, the singlet ring and the cord are items that once belonged to each individual and insure the correct people are brought."

"So the only magical item is the chalk?"

Sherlock had moved closer to examine the circle, but was careful not to touch. A glance to the side showed that John was happy with the connection he and the alchemist had made. Not that it would last. The blonde was far too irritating to be able to redeem himself.

"You are correct, though the tusk I am using has a minor enchantment on it. See these engravings here?" They were of a number of African animals. "The tusk is able to bring up an image of each animal following the proper command. Though they appear quite real, they cannot touch you or anything else. It does nothing to disrupt or aid this particular ritual, though. Once the ritual is finished, the yarrow root will be magical, but not in a way usable by any creature I have yet encountered."

Sherlock nodded and moved back, curiosity set aside for the sake of the case. He knew it would be easy to spend the entire night lost in questions.

With every item in place, Flamel struck a wooden match and dropped it into the circle. Like gasoline, the entire design went up in flames, the fire jumping up to four or five feet tall in mere seconds. Sherlock took a step back against the oppressive heat and sudden wind, alarmed by the sudden change to the tranquil night. After only a moment, the flames were gone and two men stood inside of the circle, looking decidedly confused. Flamel moved forward quickly to decorate their foreheads with the ash and the sight of him seemed to dispel most of their confusion. Perhaps Flamel made a habit of appropriating his party guests from one place to another.

The shorter of the two had messy blonde hair, which Sherlock could only just barely see the tips of from under a ridiculous black and yellow jester's hat. The theme carried throughout the rest of the bewildered-looking man's outfit. Poufy velvet sleeves and shorts were worn over tights that clung to the man's too-skinny legs. Really, it was just embarrassing. His entire demeanor indicated an aversion to confrontation, going by the way his shoulders hutched slightly forward as if to protect himself. However, as if to directly contradict this, his chin was set at an angle that suggested self-confidence. Likely, he was a scientist or inventor of some kind, confident in his lab abilities but easily flustered elsewhere.

The man beside him was much more alarming, though. Standing tall, the man's eyes immediately swept the area for danger. So, he was acclimatized to violence and likely lived a very dangerous lifestyle. Curly, dark brown hair hung to his shoulders. He looked at home in his black, brocade suit, complete with cape, but Sherlock couldn't help but think he'd be more used to combat boots and cargo pants. The man's chiseled jaw tugged at his memory, though, and it took just a moment to place him.

"You're Ryan Drover."

The dark man turned to Sherlock in surprise, caution highlighting his gaze. He subtly moved so he was in front of the jester-man. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous but there was no hiding that accent.

"What do you know of Ryan Drover?"

"I know he's an Australian assassin who's landed himself on Interpol's Most Wanted list, along with half a dozen more. Interpol ties him to at least 57 murders in the last 20 years. That's quite the track record."

A hand landed on Sherlock's shoulder and he could tell by feel alone that it was John's. A glance to the side showed that Lestrade was shifting nervously, hand twitching as if he wished for something to defend himself with. Ridiculous, he didn't even carry a weapon on the job. John's hand squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

"Sherlock, it's alright. This," he motioned towards the two men, "is Gabriel Van Helsing, monster hunter and Enforcer. The man beside him is Carl, his partner." The way John's said partner definitely meant it wasn't just a business relationship. "Gabriel uses the name Ryan Drover much like I use the name John Watson. Every person he is connected with killing has been because they had committed a crime within the supernatural community or posed a threat to human society."

Sherlock was getting real tired of these twin identities.

"How does he know they are guilty?"

Apparently not liking being talked about as though he weren't there, it was the man himself who answered.

"I can sense evil, smell it. I have never killed except to bring down a creature of the darkness, and I do not mean the night."

"How very noble of you."

The venom in Sherlock's voice couldn't be missed and John sent him a sharp look.

"_Sherlock…_"

"It's alright, John. I'm used to it."

The scowl didn't leave John's face, though, and Sherlock was beginning to feel decidedly put out over the fact that the blonde wasn't on his side. Never one to claim not to be selfish, he certainly didn't like it when his blogger was turned against him. It seemed the more he saw of this world, the less he liked it. Catching Flamel's smirk out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock knew what he had to do.

"I apologize. I was caught off guard and acted rashly. John is generally an excellent judge of character and I should not have doubted his word."

The blonde in question gaped at this flat mate, a fact Sherlock chose to ignore. He was much more interested in how he had wiped that smug look right off of Flamel's face. He stepped forward and held out a hand for the man to shake.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. John and I are flat mates. This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from New Scotland Yard."

The DI stepped forward to shake hands as well, each moving on to shake Carl's hand, too. Lestrade smiled congenially.

"So how do the two of you know John?"

"Ah! Now that's a good story! Let's see…I think it was…1896? Carl and I were still working for the Vatican at the time while trying to juggle the politics involved with being on the Council, I've never done well with authority, when word came in about a vampire in Russia. I'd already killed Dracula, so they sent us off immediately."

"You'd been sent to kill John."

"Yeah, but as I said before, I can sense evil and there was not an evil bone in that man's body. It was the first time I had encountered a vampire of that persuasion."

Here, John chimed in.

"Dracula and his kin were, by far, the most warlike of the vampires. While many of us do not and have not killed in order to feed, they would go out of their way to. Dracula enjoyed suffering, especially if he could be the cause of it."

"It didn't hurt the good impression that you saved Carl's life."

"He'd fallen off a cliff! What was I supposed to do?"

"Yes, you've always had that drive to protect others. That's why you're here, correct? I have been expecting your involvement ever since I heard about Francisco and Miranda, for which I extend my deepest sympathies. You can be sure that I will not rest until their killer sees justice."

"Nor shall I."

"Didn't expect the company, though…What is this, The Hobbit?"

John's look was clearly not amused.

"While I can see how my flat mate could seem rather draconic in personality, I hope that wasn't a reference to my height."

"I wouldn't dare." The grin on his face indicated otherwise, but at least Gabriel seemed intelligent enough to know it was time to move the conversation along. "Now, as wonderful as this little reunion is, I don't think Flamel would have summoned us to the garden and applied his Secret Ash to our foreheads if it weren't for something important. What can I do for you?"

"As you already know, I'm interested in pursuing this killer. Nic told us you had taken up the case. Have you found anything? I would consider it a great favor if you would share any information you have garnered in your search."

"Hey, now, no need to go bargaining favors. You know that's not how I do my business. I'd give you the information for the asking. As far as whom this guy is, we haven't gotten far. However, we did find this not too far from the scene. It's soaked in the same stench that surrounded the alley. I'm betting it's the killer's. I was bringing it for Flamel to take a look at."

He tossed a bundle of clothe to John, who caught it with little difficulty. Unwrapping it, a golden amulet with a large, inlaid ruby was revealed. The chain it hung from, though, was broken. Flamel rolled his eyes and huffed in irritation.

"Did everyone simply come to my ball for business? Did no one come simply because of the great honor such an invitation is?"

They all ignored him, much to Sherlock's, and likely Benedicta's, glee.

"You believe it was broken in the attack?"

Helsing nodded in the DI's direction.

"Francisco was partially transformed. A vampire of his talents would have fought back against an attack."

The alley scene flashed through Sherlock's mind and the lack of disturbance to the area still bothered him. It was still a possibility, though, that the two had been attacked somewhere else. The scrapings he'd taken from under Francisco's nails would tell him more.

Flamel held out a hand and John dutifully passed the bundle along. For some reason, this compliance on John's part bothered Sherlock and he glared at the alchemist. Ignoring the brunette, Flamel examined the amulet closely. He looked up at them with a grin.

"Well, it looks like we finally have some good news. It appears that there is only one magical signature attached to this item, meaning only one person has handled it a significant amount. _If_ it belongs to the killer, then I can track him."

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed this past chapter! As always, it is truly appreciated! Also, I love it when people mention things they'd like to see. I'm usually pretty good about working them into the story. In fact, sometimes I'll get whole new story arcs about them! So please don't hesitate to message me with something!

I want you to know that I find you all absolutely fabulous and I am honored by how many people have read this and my other fics. You are too good for me. Unfortunately, I have fallen a bit behind on my writing schedule. This being said, I will try my absolute hardest to have chapter 7 out by next Monday! I will see you all then!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 has arrived! As always, I hope you all enjoy it! Before we begin, though, I want to take a moment to thank two individuals who have had a great impact on my in the past week, devorador and WL Chastain. They are wonderful, fantastic people who left reviews and comments that will stay with me for a long, long time.

Thank you, devorador, for finding my Easter Eggs and leaving such a long, detailed review. You are everything I could ever hope for.

Thank you, WL Chastain, for encouraging me not to care what anyone thinks and for reminding me that I'm on here for myself.

I dedicate this chapter to the two of you. My only regret is that I couldn't dedicate a chapter to you each, I wouldn't be able to pick one to go first.

Chapter 7

"John, this is my _Annual Ball_. Do you understand what that means? You used to. I plan and prepare for this event all year and _no one_ is going to ruin it, not you and certainly not some half-baked killer who thinks he can recreate my genius."

The group had moved from the garden back toward Flamel's house and were standing outside the door to reenter the ballroom. John wanted the alchemist to use the locator spell as soon as possible, but the other blonde was resistant. Sherlock was starting to see why the two hadn't worked out. (Besides, of course, for the fact that they were totally wrong together. Really, what had John been thinking?) Now, the shorter blonde was standing with arms crossed, exuding cold fury from every pore. Flamel didn't seem bothered.

"So you're telling me that you're just going to let a killer run free for the sake of some party?"

"Oh, don't try and pull that on me, John. You and I both know that I can find that guy at any time now that I have something that belonged to him. He just killed and he won't kill again for almost a full week, a few hours are literally not going to kill anybody here. Besides, if I go in there and throw everybody out, it's going to cause a stir. It's entirely possible he could catch wind of it and figure out what we're up to. It's too risky."

"You just pulled that out of your arse."

"Maybe, but it's still sound reasoning. You know it would cause a stir so, whether or not you believe that's my true reasoning, you'll go along with it. Or are you forgetting how long I've known you for?"

John's jaw was clenched tight and Sherlock could tell he was taking great effort to hold back his anger. The ex-soldier had a strong sense of justice and would often take offence when Sherlock disregarded a victim's humanity while working on the case. He could only imagine how that feeling would intensify in this situation. Helsing and Carl both looked as if they felt they were intruding on something personal. Lestrade shifted a touch closer to John, almost as though he could hold the other man back. For Benedicta's part, she'd already placed herself between John and the alchemist, though slightly off to one side. Of any of them, she was certainly the one who would make the most difference.

However long Flamel had known John for, Sherlock had known him long enough to know this situation wouldn't come to blows. That wasn't John. That didn't lessen the threat in John's voice, though, when he spoke again.

"You have three hours. If, at the end of those three hours, you have not ended this ball and come to do the spell, I start destroying things. It'd probably cause quite the 'stir', don't you think? You always did like being the talk of the town, right?"

The looks they were giving each other had turned down right murderous and Sherlock was suddenly very glad to have missed their actual breakup. (Though, had he been there, they never would have gotten together in the first place because, really, so wrong together.)

After Flamel's begrudging agreement, the party headed back into the ballroom. They had wiped the ash from their foreheads and now had three hours to spend chatting and circulating the room. John wasn't bothering with his vampiric features this time and instead headed straight for the bar along the wall. Clearly, his fight with Flamel had affected him greatly. Lestrade and Sherlock followed after him while the others melted into the crowd. Neither of the humans really wanted to be stuck wandering this place without their guide.

That being said, Sherlock was dying to ask more questions and explaining things had always proved to be an excellent way to distract his blonde. He cast his gaze around the opulent ballroom once again to find a suitable topic to begin with when his eyes landed upon the Abeil Queen and her guard. They chatted quietly amongst themselves. By this time, John already had a glass in hand, filled with something that looked suspiciously like blood but smelled like alcohol. (Sherlock suspected a blend of the two.) He got a glass of red wine for Lestrade and Sherlock declined the offer of a drink.

"Do they produce honey?"

For a moment, John looked startled out of his irate mood before his eyes traveled across the room to the Queen. A small smile tweaked his lips.

"Why, Sherlock, I had no idea you had such an interest in bees. The answer is, yes, they produce honey. However, their honey is a bit different than what you might expect. They imbue the honey with their ability to change an object's shape. It's called Substance Particle Manipulation. Anyone who eats the honey will gain the ability for a short amount of time, depending on the amount consumed. Of course, it's an extremely valuable commodity," he said in response to the thoughtful look that crossed Sherlock's face. "They don't just go handing it out. You have to trade for it and only the Queen has the power to approve such things."

"So you must bring something that is seen as valuable in her eyes."

"Indeed."

"Hold up a mo. What, exactly, is this Substance Particle Manipulation? They can what? Bend objects with their mind? 'There is no spoon.' And all that?"

Lestrade seemed torn between the fact that it sounded entirely absurd while, at the same time, realizing that just about everything they had encountered so far was. After all, they were talking about humanoid bees. It seemed the irony was lost on their blonde companion, however.

"Not with their mind, no. It allows someone with the ability to easy sculpt matter with their hands. For example, Abeils are known for their honeycomb-style living arrangements. Often, they sculpt these spaces out of solid rock. Instead of spending hours of hard labor they simply use this ability to turn the stone to something more akin to clay in their hands. Skilled sculpting still requires a skilled artist, but it eliminates the need for tools."

"Fascinating…"

Sherlock was so caught up in his study of the creatures that he missed John's wolfish grin until the blonde spoke again.

"Would you like to meet her? I've had some interactions with the Abiel queendom before and would be happy to introduce you."

It would have taken someone on the same intellectual level as Anderson to miss the excitement that lit up Sherlock's face. Okay, so he had a small, tiny fascination with bees. It wasn't even a fascination, really, more like a vague interest. And who could blame him? Bees were very majestic creatures.

"That would be an acceptable way to pass the time, I suppose. This entire affair seems rather dull and grating. You know how I hate such high society drivel."

Perhaps the speech would have sounded more convincing if his gaze weren't still riveted on the Queen and her guard. Even Lestrade was sporting a smirk. John just shook his head and led the way across the room.

While her guards remained unclothed, the Queen wore an elaborate robe of blue and yellow silk. The structure of the robe seemed to be oriental in nature and it had wide pant legs for each of the six limbs she used for walking. The sleeves for her arms hung down a good foot. To add to the oriental air, her long black hair was swept up into a bun and held in place by hair sticks. At this closer vantage point, Sherlock was able to identify several identifiers in their bone structure which pointed to a connection with the Asian part of the world. The slant of their eyes and high cheekbones indicated that they were affiliated most closely with the Koreans. Fascinating…

Upon reaching the delegation, John bowed low at the waist, one palm pressed flat above his heart. Sherlock and Lestrade followed suit. They maintained the position for a moment before the Queen made a soft buzzing note and they rose. John smiled genteelly.

"Your Highness, you are looking absolutely radiant tonight. That blue looks stunning on you."

The Queen held out one hand for John to kiss, which he did, and fluttered her lashes at him. Sherlock spared a moment to wonder at his flat mate's ability to attract females before becoming distracted by the woman's eyes. What had appeared initially to be jet black orbs were now revealed as having hints of gold within them. The tiny gold lines crossed the black expanse like a spider web to form a honeycomb pattern. Rather fitting.

"I see you have not lost your charm in these many centuries, Blood Healer. You look well."

"You are gracious to say so, Queen Atta. May I present my companions? This is Sherlock Holmes, a man of great intellect with whom I would trust my life, and this is Gregory Lestrade, a cherished friend from New Scotland Yard."

She did not extend the kissing hand to them, but instead ran an analytical eye across their forms. She lingered a touch longer on Sherlock.

"Intellect is valued quite highly within Abiel society, if used for the good of the Colony. To what end do you use yours?"

Sherlock knew impending judgment when he heard it. After all, this wouldn't be the first time. He felt his back stiffen as he drew himself up to his full height. So she wanted to test his worth? Let her try.

"I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I see things and make connections that no one else can. Mainly, I consult with the police, as they are constantly out of their depth."

The ridges of her brow, because there was no hair to give her an actual eyebrow, rose in surprise.

"The _human_ police?"

"The same."

"Well, that is certainly noble of you, though ultimately pointless. Tell me, how do you keep your particular nature hidden?"

She was clearly referring to his supernatural side, being unaware he did not have one. Sherlock had to give her the credit for at least being subtle about trying to figure out what he was. He and Lestrade had been warned during the ride that most individuals would assume they were sorcerers or wizards, therefore still human. He appreciated that this Queen was not so easily taken in.

"I find I have no need to."

It took only a moment for her to grasp the full implications of his words.

"Ah, I see. Though, given the company," her gaze flickered to John, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You've always had a love for the humans, haven't you, Blood Healer? That is, after all, how you and the Stone Bearer met, was it not?"

"Yes…Nic and I met when he was trying to first create the stone. He had stumbled into a rather nasty situation while looking for magical components and I happened to be nearby."

She smiled and patted John's cheek with one hand affectionately. Sherlock was beginning to suspect that their relationship was some strange mix of flirtation and maternity. He made a mental note to study it further at the next given opportunity.

"You saved his life, John." This was the first time she'd actually used his name and she said it full of affection. "Good thing, too, since the two of you made such an adorable couple. As I keep telling you, though, looks aren't everything."

"Yes, you will be happy to know that Nic and I are no longer…attached to one another as we were before."

The blonde took a pull from his drink to cover the awkwardness of presenting the statement but it didn't faze the Queen in the slightest.

"Oh, my dear…I am sorry for your pain. I know you felt very strongly for him."

Her guards shifted uneasily at the term of endearment, which told Sherlock she didn't use them often. Likely, such terms were even frowned upon. Their discomfort grew when she made a buzzing noise that sounded almost affectionate. John smiled at her, a bit sadly but with the stone face that came hand in hand with being British. They'd practically invented suppressing emotions.

"It is alright. In the end, you were right. Nic wanted to show off and throw elaborate parties." A gesture at the ball room illustrated his point. "I just wanted to be a normal chap and live simply."

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Both the blonde and the Queen seemed to startle at the reminder that they were in company. "You have never been and never will be normal. Simple, perhaps, but never normal. Normal is dull."

John rolled his eyes at his flat mate, but the brunette didn't miss the Queen's approving smile.

"So is this your new 'attachment'? He's certainly cute, for a human."

John looked like he wanted to kill himself and Lestrade was grinning widely. Sherlock would admit, only to himself, that he was a bit pleased with the insinuation. John deserved better than Flamel and, really, there was no one better than himself. Not that he was interested in anything like that. All those messy little things that went along with transport were still beneath him.

"We're _not_ a couple."

John said it with the exasperation of a man who'd said the same thing many times and the Queen's eyes sparkled.

"A shame. At least this one is intelligent." Sherlock was beginning to think his fondness for bees might be growing. "Oh, look, it's the Earth Spirit. If you'll excuse me, I have some things I need to discuss with her."

They bid their goodbyes, bowing once more, before the Queen and her guard headed off to speak with a woman whose hair looked like moss and who wore a flowing gown of tree branches. Tiny flowers lined the hem. The trio watched her go.

"She seemed very pleasant."

"You only like her because she called you cute. What is it that you always say about flattery, Sherlock?"

"That it gets you everywhere. It does not, however, hold any bearing on our current situation. I simply appreciate her mental ability, that's all."

Lestrade all but scoffed.

"Whatever you say, Sherlock. I swear, you Holmes brothers are ridiculous."

"Pardon me, did you just say Holmes?"

The group turned to see a man with stone-like skin stepping out of the crowd. His suit was charcoal grey and dusted with powder. As the man moved his head there was the sound of stone grating against stone and another shower of powder fell to dust his suit. Powerful wings were pulled tight to his back and a thick tail just lightly brushed the ground. He had no hair, but his ears were long and pointed. It was John who responded, silently elected as the most qualified.

"Yes…Why do you ask?"

The man instantly turned sheepish under John's suspicious look.

"Ah, I'm forgetting my manners. I'm so sorry, sir." He bowed hurriedly and then held out one clawed hand for John to shake, once again accompanied by the sound of grating stone. "My name is Horashio Black. It's an honor to meet you."

John shook his hand bit didn't respond any further. His expression didn't become any friendlier, either. The man shifted uncomfortably.

"Right…um, sorry about that. It's just that I work for the Human Interaction Bureau and there is a human we've been thinking about bringing into the fold. He's currently undergoing our analysis process and, if he gets approved, we'll reveal this side of the world to him. His last name is Holmes, so that's why I was so taken by surprise."

"Wait, you mean Mycroft?"

The man's face lit up.

"You know him, Doctor?"

Sherlock snorted. No way was he letting his brother into his sandbox.

"Oh, you don't want to let Mycroft in. He'll stick his nose into everything and meddle. Nothing will be safe."

Horashio looked alarmed and pulled a leather-bound book from his breast pocket along with a pen. Flipping it open, he poised to write.

"Why do you say that?"

Sherlock could feel the predatory grin stretch across his lips and he'd just opened his mouth to launch into a career-ruining tirade when John stepped in.

"Don't listen to him. He's completely biased. May I introduce Sherlock Holmes, little brother of Mycroft Holmes. This is Gregory Lestrade, who occasionally works with the man." Greg's immediate, "Under duress," went ignored. "I have had a number of interactions with the man myself. He is very competent."

"His brother, you say? That'll make two family members with high enough clearance levels…"

He marked something down in the notebook. Sherlock was much more interested in his statement, though.

"What do you mean, two?"

"You didn't know? Your father was registered with our offices."

The information blindsided the detective. His father had known about this world? True, he'd known his father had fingers in a lot of pies, but it hadn't even crossed his mind that the man would have been involved in the supernatural community. He shared a look with John.

"No, I didn't. Though Father was hardly the type for chit chat so I'm not all that surprised it didn't come up."

Horashio got a funny look on his face.

"It should have shown up when you registered, though…I don't understand…"

He looked at John as if he held all the` answers and the blonde smiled reassuringly back.

"Sherlock and Greg are both relatively new additions to this world. We haven't had time to get them registered yet."

"I see…Well, just be sure that you do. I won't say anything, Doctor, but it _is_ regulations…"

"Of course. I have every intention of doing so, things have just been a little hectic the last couple of days."

Horashio nodded quickly and bowed once more before saying his goodbyes and fading back into the crowd. John took the time to explain that all humans who found out about the supernatural world were to be registered with the HIB for security reasons. John's status would eliminate the need for them to go through the long, arduous application process, but they would still need to be registered. At Sherlock's prompting, he also explained that Horashio was a Gargoyle, the protectors of the supernatural world.

The rest of the ball was spent talking to a myriad of people. Many of the outfits worn were ostentatious and amazing, though they did encounter one man in nothing but jeans and a white tank top. It'd taken Sherlock only moments to deduce that he was the designer for most of the clothes there. The Banshee, Lady Helen, came over to chat between songs and seemed to take quite a shining to Lestrade. By the end of the time window, Sherlock may even have enjoyed himself.

Still, there was no putting off what needed to be done. Flamel had already managed to move several of the guests towards leaving and announced his retirement for the evening promptly at the three hour mark. He swept from the ballroom without a backwards glance. One of the many servants appeared at John's elbow moments later.

"Master Flamel has requested that you meet him in the main study with your companions. He will be ready for you there."

John nodded in thanks before turning to lead the trio towards another of the doors which lined the wall.

"I remember when Nic first built this place. He wanted everything to be connected to this room, so each door is set up with a travel spell to take you to another part of the house. It's a bit silly, but useful for getting around quickly."

The door didn't take them directly to the study, but to a hallway instead. The walls held fine art portraits and fantastical scenes. There was a series of three wall-height portraits depicting a stately man with blue hair in a city, on a storming sea, and finally what looked like the African Sahara. As they walked past, the center portrait, the one on the sea, swiveled to look at them. Lestrade jumped back with a shout and Sherlock may or may not have been startled. John glanced at the picture and said something that sounded like, "Da gachi doja," and the portrait returned to its original position.

"Sorry. I'd forgotten about that. Flamel cast spells on a number of the portraits and statues in the house to act as a security system. When a person passes by the piece, it activates a silent alarm to alert Flamel. Without the proper pass code, it will trigger a series of other, less savory spells designed for intruders."

"So you forgot about the security portraits but remembered the pass code?"

Lestrade's incredulity was clear in his voce. John looked sheepish.

"I forgot the pass code once, many years ago…I never will again. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

The blonde turned once more to head down the hall, leaving the others to follow behind. The tension in his shoulders left no doubt about the unpleasantness of that particular memory. Sherlock felt the knot of his general hatred for Flamel tighten a bit.

It took them less than a minute to reach a set of wooden doors that led into Flamel's study. The room was large and circular, reaching two stories in height. Books lined every inch of the walls and three huge windows looked out over the gardens. Far in the distance, Sherlock could just barely make out the fountain they'd been standing around earlier. Tables and couches were scattered about the room, mostly covered in papers and open books. Jars littered some of the shelves, holding small creatures or bits of larger ones suspended in liquid or pinned to a board like a butterfly display. Overhead, hanging from the ceiling like a plane in a museum, was the skeleton of a huge dragon. Flamel and Benedicta were leaning over a large, mahogany desk set just before the windows. They looked up at the trio's approach.

"Nice of you to join us."

Clearly, Flamel was not over having to cut his party short. Sherlock just glared at him as the doors opened once more to admit Carl and Gabriel. The servant who had been leading them bowed and backed out of the room.

The group gathered around the desk, which had a map of the world laid out across its surface. Flamel took the pendant Helsing had found in his hand along with a dark chain that had a blood red gem attached to the end.

"This is a Divining Stone, forged by the Dwarves from the blood of a dragon. It will sense the energy of the killer from his amulet and lead us to him."

He held his fist out over the map and began chanting in a deep voice, eyes glazed over and swaying slightly. The stone did not sway with him, instead traveling a lazy circle around the map. As the rotation was completed, the map's image sprung to life, zooming in closer to the European continent. Another rotation brought them to the UK and yet another revealed the killer to be in England. The image shifted to the city of London before settling on the map of a ten block radius not far from the docks. Flamel jerked almost violently as he came out of the spell and stumbled back, John's grasp the only thing keeping him from falling.

Sherlock scowled.

Gabriel leaned more closely over the map.

"So we have him narrowed down to this area, but it's still too large for us to be able to pinpoint him. We could assemble a force to search the area, but it would take time, time he could use to flee."

A growl of irritation ripped its way from his throat and Carl placed a hand on his arm, visibly calming his partner. Sherlock's eyes darted to John, still supporting Flamel, and had to forcibly push his irritation to the side. Flamel wasn't the only one with fun tricks.

"Helsing, you said you followed the killer's scent from the crime scene to the amulet, correct?"

"Yes."

"I need you to describe it to me, exactly."

The Hunter ran a hand through his stubble in thought.

"Scent for a Were is very different than for a human, because of the strength of it, but I will try my best." There was a pause as he thought. "It was tangy and sharp, like a plane's exhaust. But it was much darker, almost murky. There was definitely the scent of oxidization and something like fungus, but I couldn't quite pin it down."

Sherlock hummed in response and peered over the map. He'd spent years tracking every inch of London and knew just about every nook and cranny there was to know. With that wealth of information stored away in his Mind Palace, he began making his way through the buildings on the map. The scent of plane exhaust and oxidization pointed towards something from that industry, but none of the buildings had been used for any such purpose in the past 20 years except for a small shipping plant near the edge of the map, but he doubted the exposure was enough to provide the killer with a prominent scent. Plus, it was still in use, so it was unlikely to provide the killer with the privacy he needed.

Within the ten block square, there were seven possibilities that gave the privacy the killer would be looking for. Three had gone out of business less than a year ago, but the other four had been out of operations for at least three. Two had been used to manufacture toys and could be immediately discarded. The one nearest the center of the map had been used as a meth lab for the better part of a year and would have left a stronger scent trail. Likewise, Helsing hadn't mentioned anything about the water, so he also disregarded the warehouse closest to the river bank.

Of the remaining three buildings, the most likely were a jewelry manufacturing plant and a plant that had maintained and replaced gas pipelines for the city. Both used Niobium in their products, an element also used in rocket and jet engines. Pairing that information up with the musty smell, Sherlock pointed to the gas pipeline plant. The must would have come from the old pipes.

"Here. The killer is here. It's dreadfully obvious."

Everyone was staring at his with the usual 'are you insane?' look, everyone except for John. John was grinning at him with pride and fondness and a touch of something Sherlock couldn't quite identify. He jerked back to the conversation at hand as Gabriel spoke.

"It's not obvious to me."

"Yeah, you get used to it. Best thing to do is just accept that he's right and try not to punch him in his smug mouth."

While Lestrade's words are harsh, they carried a fondness that washed away any sting they would have held. Sherlock nodded to him in acknowledgement before launching into an explanation.

"This warehouse is the only one with sufficient space and privacy to match our killer's needs while exposing him to the elements you smelled at the crime scene. It was practically child's play to figure it out."

Benedicta was smirking at Gabriel's blank look.

"Well, then, I say we get ready to go catch a killer then, shall we? Carl, you wouldn't happen to have some extra weapons in the car, would you? I'd hate to send the humans in unarmed."

Carl grinned in a way that said 'crazy scientist' and nodded.

"After that incident in Venice I never go anywhere without a healthy stock. I can have them outfitted in no time."

Flamel was standing on his own again, much to Sherlock's approval.

"I can be ready to move in about an hour. My spells will take me at least that long to prepare."

John nodded.

"Good. Then let's meet back in the ball room in an hour. Nic, you still have the London flat?"

"Of course."

"Then we'll use the connection to cut down on travel time. Benedicta, can you have a car ready for us?"

"Without a doubt."

"Then let's do this."

As it turned out, Flamel's London flat was attached to the ball room in the same manner as his garden and his study. Merely walking through a door had the group stepping out right into the center of London. Benedicta's car idled out front. She'd changed out of her fancy red dress and into a black pants-suit with red stitching that made her look about as deadly as gun pointed at your head.

Sherlock and Lestrade had been equipped from the arsenal Carl kept in the back of Helsing's SUV. Turns out, he was a crazy scientist. Each man held a pistol and two clips of ammunition. Similar to the bullets used against John in the war, they were silver, blessed, and tipped with Holy Water. All in all, they felt well-prepared when they pulled up outside of the warehouse.

The distant thought of wishing he'd had time to go by the lab crossed Sherlock's mind. Getting a look at the dirt samples from underneath Francisco's nails would definitely give him a better idea about what they were headed into. There wasn't time for that, though.

The entire area was silent as John broke the chain on the fence with his bare hands. It scraped against the concrete, but nothing stirred at the sound. Cautiously, the group crept onto the property. It was just after midnight and the area seemed completely deserted.

They only made it a few meters before something long and thick whipped out of the darkness to wrap around Lestrade's body and haul him into the air. With a shout of alarm, the DI kicked his legs in struggle, arms pinned to his side. John sprang forward, vampiric features gleaming in the dim light and slashed through the vine with his claws. He pushed Lestrade behind him, back towards the center of the group, just as another vine whipped out of the darkness to grab his wrist.

"Assassin Vines. I bloody hate these things…"

With a series of sickening cracks and pops, Helsing began his transformation into a wolf. Like Jerome, he halted while still bipedal and mostly humanoid. Covered in fur and with a protruding snout and fangs, though, he certainly looked menacing. He ripped through the vine attacking John only to have dozen shoot out of the darkness and grab hold.

Flamel, who's changed into black cargo pants and a tank top with more of the same fiery design as his suit, was searching frantically through his pockets.

"We won't be able to fight them all! We need to clear a path!"

The alchemist pulled out a jar that, once again, could not have possibly fit in the pocket it came from. Its contents glowed orange and spilled forth as soon as he unscrewed the lid. What had previously appeared to be a single, glowing object proved instead to be several dozen tiny, glowing dots that flew through the air to alight upon the vines.

The briefest touch set the blood thirsty plants on fire. Flamel grinned.

"Fireflies. They're a personal invention. Aren't they just lovely?"

Helsing muttered something that sounded a lot like 'show off' but kept the majority of his opinions to himself seeing as the Flamel _had_ just saved him. John stepped closer to Sherlock and Lestrade, the better to keep them safe.

"We need a better way of fighting them off. If it were as easy as setting them on fire, they wouldn't have lasted this long…"

As he spoke the fires were already being put out by the vines and more were creeping out of the darkness. Carl was rooting around in his coat and exclaimed happily upon producing a squirt bottle.

"Aha! I knew it was in here! These are the liquefied pheromones of the tiger lily plant, closely related to the Assassin Vine. With any luck, they should mask us from the plant's senses!"

Benedicta gave him a weird look.

"How do you come up with these weird inventions?"

"Safety has to come first when experimenting with variations of tentacle affection. Good thing, too, since they always seem to come in handy. Quickly now!"

Gabriel shook his head.

"It's best if you don't ask. Remember, though, the safety word for the week is 'potato.' It'll come in handy, trust me."

Ignoring his partners exasperation, Carl began spraying them all with the pheromone, creating a cloud of subtle floral scents. The vines which had been surrounding the group visibly hesitated. One crept forward slowly to brush the side of Flamel's neck. To his credit, the man only flinched a little.

"I think it's working. Let's get moving before they decide they want to kill us again!"

All in agreement, the group began to press forward once more. Assassin Vines littered the yard, but no longer paid them much attention as they got closer and closer to the warehouse. The building loomed up before them like a giant mountain. Against all logic, the building itself seemed sinister. Gabriel, still mostly transformed, lifted his muzzle to sniff the air.

"There is great evil here, more evil than could come from just one being. There must be more guards inside."

John nodded stiffly.

"None of us believed this would be easy. Now is when the real fight begins."

With a nod from the others, Helsing grabbed the door of the warehouse and yanked it open. That was when things really started to go downhill.

A/N: So that's it, y'all! We had some fun times with the ball, some action at the end… Next chapter will be action packed and I promise, you didn't see this one coming. The stakes will be raised and limits will be tested. Will our beloved characters make it out unscathed?

As always, please review! I do so ever appreciate them and they really do make a difference. If there's something in my writing you think I could work on, let me know. I love constructive criticism and I'm always trying to improve. If there's something you'd like to see happen, let me know. I'm interested in getting ideas from my readers. If you want to yell at me for not putting in enough spider monkey sex…let me know. I hear it's pretty wild.

See you all next week! If I finish the next chapter early, I will also try to write another one-shot. (Does anyone reading this like FrostIron? Loki and Tony Stark from Avengers? I've been feeling the pull towards that lately…) Toodles, now!


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